


Wild Magic

by wittyy_name



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Animal Traits, Background Shiro/Matt, Blood, Fighting, Fluff, High Fantasy, M/M, Magic, Mild Angst, Mutual Pining, Strangers to Lovers, Violence, art collab, based on the league of legends universe, battle-dancer Lance, but it reads like normal fantasy, courting, entertainer Lance, freedom fighter Keith, keith's pov, vastaya au, wing fic sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2019-07-22
Packaged: 2019-09-15 05:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 151,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16927446
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wittyy_name/pseuds/wittyy_name
Summary: The Vastaya are an ancient and proud race, born of magic and man, and they are dying. The spread of humans makes the magic of their homelands run thin. What is left is preyed upon and corrupted by the rising galra influence.After losing their home, what remains of the Marmora tribe scatters, fighting the spread of corruption where they can. For the last few  centuries, this is the only life Keith has known. And with Shiro’s disappearance, he’s more alone than ever. But he keeps going, even if it means losing himself. For the fight. For his people. For their future. For his homelands. For magic.The last thing he expected to find is another feathered vastaya, one with wings that shine like the sky and move like waves when he dances. He never asked for company, never wanted it. But as Keith finds himself growing fond of Lance’s flippant attitude and determined blue eyes, he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he doesn’t want to fight alone anymore.





	1. Part I: Falling

**Author's Note:**

> Hello again! I'm very excited to bring you this new story and this new au. Sora ((@wolfpainters and my artist collab partner)) and I have been working on this one for a year now, and it's our favorite work so far. 
> 
> This fic takes place in the world created by League of Legends, and Keith and Lance's designs are based on mine and sora's favorite champions, Xayah and Rakan. We took inspiration from those champions, their quotes, and all the scattered information we could find on the world they come from. We gathered what we could, and then filled in the gaps and connected the pieces with our own explanations, reasoning, and imagination. This story _is not_ a direct retelling. It is inspired from, but the plot is altered for our own story, moulded from our own ideas, and includes Voltron elements. 
> 
> _You DO NOT need to have any knowledge of LoL._ This fic reads as any other fantasy au, and like any other fantasy story, no prior knowledge is necessary.
> 
> This story is a writing style that is my favorite to write. It's been amazing to indulge in it. And I hope you all enjoy this new story. Happy reading!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you have to stumble and fall in order to learn how to live.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Chapter Warning: This chapter includes vague mentions of and the aftermath of physical torture and wing maiming. There is violence and mentions of blood, but it is not gore._

✦ ✧ _Long ago, our kind danced upon the mountains like flames. Now only the embers remain_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

  


Hope is a strong word.

It’s not so much hope that drives him forward as it is determination. 

It’s a fire beneath his skin. It’s a heat in his blood. It flows through him with the magic he thrives on. It pulses through his veins. It drives him forward. Onward. One step at a time. One step. Another. Keep going. Never stop. Fight. Fight. Fight.

If he were to stop, if that determined fire were to be snuffed out, he knows he would fall. It’s the only thing that keeps strength in his legs, magic crackling at his fingertips, spine straight, and head held high.

He doesn’t _hope_ Shiro is alive so much as he _knows_ it. 

He refuses to believe otherwise. 

He hasn’t heard from the others in months. Perhaps even years. Time is odd. It flows strangely as he walks the ley lines, one foot in familiar lush Ionian forests and one foot in the barren realm of humans. He tries not to keep track of it. If he pays attention to the time that passes, he’ll be forced to face how long he’s been wandering. 

He can’t look behind him. He can only look ahead. 

He doesn’t know if the others are alive. He finds traces of them now and again, but he doesn’t know how long they have been there. He _does_ , however, know that Shiro is alive. 

He has to be. 

No matter where he is or what state he’s in, he _has_ to be alive. 

He _is_ alive.

Because if he’s not, then Keith will have to face the fact that he is actually alone, truly alone, and has been for a while. That is a shadow he’s not quite willing to face. 

  


* * *

Nights blend into days, and days bleed into nights.   


He finds clues. He finds leads. He follows them. He catches a whiff of galra activity. He chases it. He fights them. He stops them. He cleanses ley lines and temples of shadow magic. He moves on. He finds more leads. He frees vastaya. He doesn’t stick around. He fights off the humans who fight him.    


He fights. He survives. He moves on. 

One step forward. Then another. He doesn’t look back. 

He hears whispers of a captured vastaya. One from the Marmora tribe. Black fur. Fierce silver eyes. One that had been captured. One that had been forced into galran arenas. He chases rumors. He weeds through gossip. He follows the barest of leads. He finds galran hideouts. He destroys arenas. He frees the prisoners.

He doesn’t find Shiro. 

He moves on.

He takes shelter in the woods, among the trees. The forests of Ionia are familiar. They’re his home. Surrounded by magic, he feels at home. It’s almost a comfort. He avoids humans as often as he can. He doesn’t stay in their establishments. They know him. They know of him. His feathers are known.

The Raven of Marmora, they call him. 

He supposes they’re not wrong. 

Most know to fear him. Most know to avoid him. Most clear out of his path. But most is not all. There are some who covet his feathers. Priceless. Full of wild magic. Prizes from a race that’s dying. They think they can overpower him with numbers. With human weapons. They are wrong. They learn their lesson. Painfully. 

He sometimes takes shelter in Marmoran hideouts. They’re hidden all throughout Ionia and surrounding lands. They house a wealth of information left by those who had taken shelter there before. Everyone leaves reports of their movements, of what they’ve done. Keith is no different. He records his movements. He hides his disappointment when he finds no one there. 

He doesn’t know how long it’s been since he last saw them. No doubt years before he and Shiro were separated. Though time is difficult to count. His memories of them are vivid, even if they’re surrounded by an uncertain fog of time. It feels like a different life. When they were all together. When he had a home. A life that he can no longer go back to.

The only thing he has left of them are the records they leave in the hideouts. He often finds himself running his fingers over the pages, over the dates marking the tops of the pages. It’s the only proof that they’re still out there. That, and the rumors he hears whispered on the wind, whispered in taverns and between travelers. He’s apart of those whispers. Whispers of the Vastayan Blade. 

It’s a reminder that despite being alone, he’s apart of something, and that something is worth fighting for.

It’s a comfort as the days pass, as the nights drift away. Time slips through his fingers as he chases words, rumors, gossip. He finds himself at dead ends, only consoling himself in the fact that he’s doing some good, even if he hasn’t found Shiro. 

But with each rise and set of the moon, he finds the colors bleed a little more out of the world. The human realm seems more and more barren, and it’s leaking further and further into his homelands. The music seems to fade, and he doesn’t know if it’s slipping from this world or if he’s becoming deaf to it. He still feels the magic, but it’s disconnected. He’s not in tune with it as he used to be. He fears he’s losing himself, but he can’t stop. Can’t turn back. 

Forward. Onward.

He’ll willingly lose himself if it means his people have a future.

The days develop patterns, and patterns settle into monotony. 

He finds himself finding comfort in the monotony. In the grayscale world. In the silence.

He’s forgotten what it was like to hear the music. 

  


* * *

✦ ✧ _I will make them dance. I will make them hear_  ✧ ✦

  


* * *

 

  


When he hears the music, he thinks it must be a dream. 

He’s walking through a human village. Their technology is simple, as are most of the smaller towns around Ionia. The cobblestones are smooth and uneven beneath his feet. He keeps his cloak pulled tight around him to hide his feathers, though the bulging shape of them is hard to hide completely. He keeps his hood pulled up and his head tilted downward. 

He had caught wisps of rumors from a traveling group of merchants. It was nothing concrete. Gossip and rumors, whispers and tales, but they told of an artifact being sold here in this town. A necklace of unmistakable vastayan origins. That, in and of itself, isn’t unheard of. Vastaya often created and sold wares to humans. Trade between their people had become more and more common as the human lands expanded. Things are traded. Things are found. Things are sold.

However, the whispers had come up when a traveling merchant had said he had seen the necklace being sold. He had said it had a feather that reminded him of Keith’s.    


It could be a coincidence. It could merely be a regular feather that had been dyed to look vastayan. It could be another vastaya’s feather. But... in all his travels, Keith has never seen another vastaya like him. He’s never seen another with feathers. Lhotlans, the Marmora had said his kind are called. If there is even a remote chance that the necklace has one of his own feathers, he has to have it. And if it turns out that the feather belongs to another vastaya... well, maybe he can find out a little more about where his parents came from.    


So he finds himself in another human town. One that he’s probably been to before, but they all blur together, they all look the same. Trying to keep his head down. Trying to stay hidden. He’s known in these parts, and he doesn’t need to draw unwanted attention to himself before he can even find what he came here for.    


Then he hears the music. 

He freezes mid step, body stiff and poised mid-motion, eyes widening and lips parting as his jaw falls lax. 

For a moment, and just a moment, he’s transported back into the deep corner of Ionia where he grew up. He’s back in the wild, untamed jungles. He’s back in his village, surrounded by the Marmora tribe, vastaya who don’t look like him but who have never treated him differently for it. He’s back with Shiro, young and reckless, a laugh at the tip of his tongue, breathless as they chase each other through the ancient buildings that made up their village. Ancient stones, moss covered and vine dipped. 

He closes his eyes, and he can hear the music of home. The song in the air dances across his skin, fills his lungs. The notes, silent to the ear but heard in his soul, urging him to move, to breathe, to _live_. 

In that moment, brief and fleeting, he can smell the earthy scent of home, the damp ground after a rain, the way the trees smelled in the sun. He can hear Shiro’s laughter, the grumbles of the Elders, the general din of their tribe. He can feel the stones of their homes beneath his feet, the packed earth, the woven rugs. He can feel the moss and vines beneath his fingertips as he climbed. He can feel the warm wind beneath his wings, combing invisible fingers through his feathers. 

There are colors and music and _life_.

And then the moment passes, and he opens his eyes. 

He’s back in the human town, the name of which escapes him. Nameless. Bland. Gray. The same as any other. It smells foul and stagnant. The noises are loud and grating. The air is thick and heavy. 

It’s then that he realizes that the music isn’t in the air. It isn’t the sound of magic. It isn’t a live wire, a buzz of energy, light and fleeting across his skin, in his lungs, in his blood. 

But it’s close enough. 

His feet are moving before he makes the decision to do so, carrying him through the human streets. It’s only then that he realizes that the town isn’t as crowded as he expected it to be. There are some people here and there, but so few compared to the usual hustle and bustle that he’s come to associate with human settlements.

His ears perk up beneath his hood, causing it to shift precariously, but he can’t bring himself to be as cautious as he had been moments before. His entire body feels tight as a bowstring, taut and tense as he’s drawn inexplicably toward the music. It gets louder with every step, and with every step, he feels a buzz fill his lungs, anticipation racing through his veins. 

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but it isn’t at all what he sees. 

As he rounds a corner, he finds the source of the music, as well as where all the people are. Before him is a town square, a large stone fountain at the center. The crowd is thick, swaying, chattering in whispers. Keith clings to the edges, watching the sight from afar. On the far side of the fountain, he can see the performer dancing along the lip of the fountain. The man’s back is to him, form distorted by the stone tower at the center of the fountain, but he can see the flashes of color, the jingle of his adornments.

He’s about to step away, despite the strange draw of the music, despite the part of him that feels the irresistible tug, but as he moves to head back the way he’s come, the performer twirls into view. 

Keith’s first impression is _blue_. Bright, vibrant blue. Blue of all shades, ranging from the midnight navy of the sky giving way to night, to the bright crystal blue of ice atop a frozen pond. Delicate, vibrant shades of blue, each adorning a feather, each feather glistening in the sunlight, each weaving together in a beautiful display.    


A vastaya.

Not just any vastaya, but someone like _him_. 

He’s never seen another feathered vastaya, a Lhotlan, and Keith finds his breath catching in his throat as his heart lodges itself there. His ears perk up fully, causing his hood to fall to his shoulders. 

Dark skin. Rich and wispy chestnut hair. Ears sprouting long and furry from the sides of his head, turning blue near the tips. Blue markings on his cheeks and chin. His clothes are strangely simple, making his plumage more extravagant His lean chest is on display, and he dances across the fountain’s lip on light feet, each step confident and quick, making his movements graceful and lifting. His wings rise above his shoulders, falling well below his waist. They spin as he twirls in a brilliant display. 

But it’s not the beauty of his wings that makes Keith give pause, that makes him feet rooted to the spot. 

It’s his song. 

A simple lute in hand, his fingers pluck at the strings with quick precision, never hesitating, never missing a note. His voice is beautiful, rich and warm, lilting and light. It rises and falls like waves on a beach, flowing like a river downstream. And the _words_. 

It’s not the common tongue. It’s not a language the humans would understand. It’s not a language _Keith_ understands. But it’s one that he _feels_. 

He feels it in his chest, a pulsing warmth, a tug and a pull, urging him forward despite being firmly rooted to the spot. He knows enough to realize that it’s an old vastayan tongue. There’s magic in the words themselves, an echo of power that he can hear and feel. There’s music in the language that only adds to the magic of the song. 

He knows it’s an old vastayan tongue, but it’s not one that he’s ever heard before. It’s not the one that he heard growing up with the Marmora tribe. It’s not the one that that made up the songs he knows and learned from. 

It makes his heart ache with something he finds hard to place. 

He doesn’t know how long he stands there. Doesn’t know how long he watches the performer. He doesn’t know if one song has passed or two. He’s just as enraptured as the audience. Pinned in place and lost in time. 

The vastaya’s music is like a fresh breath of air in his lungs.

Then two brilliantly blue eyes lock with his, and he forgets how to breathe. 

Something flutters inside him, an ache and a warmth. He’s unfamiliar with it. He doesn’t know what to make of it. It’s foreign and strange. It fills the hollow inside that’s been growing for years, making his chest feel uncomfortably tight. 

Then the vastaya smirks, lips quirking at the edges, curving upward into a look that’s entirely self satisfactory, confident, cocky. His song never stops, but neither does he look away from Keith. His eyes grow lidded, and he _winks_ , playful and teasing. 

It’s then that Keith snaps out of his trance. 

He feels the scowl take over his features, furrowed brow and lips turning downward into a frown. He scoffs, rolling his eyes, and before he turns, he sees the vastaya blink, surprise making his expression fall and his words to stumble. A small trickle of amused satisfaction trickles through him as he pulls up his hood once again, turning his back on the performance. 

Vastaya or not, Keith decides that the man is an idiot. A fool. Using old vastayan treasures, their _songs_ , to entertain _humans_. Flaunting his wings like they’re nothing more than pretty novelties. Flaunting _himself_ like he’s nothing more than a doll for human entertainment. Arrogant. Cocky. 

It figures that Keith finally finds a vastaya like him, and he’s an absolute idiot. 

Still, with his performance going on in the town square, Keith is easily able to find the shop he heard was selling the necklace. He manages to slip inside, find the necklace in question, and question the shopkeeper for information. He might have been a little rough with the man, but he had been uncooperative and Keith had been riled up by the sight of the necklace’s pendant. Despite the shopkeeper’s shouts for help with the wild vastaya, no one is around to hear him.

For the first time in a long time, he’s able to walk out of a town without blood on his daggers and angry humans on his heels.

Perhaps the idiot is good for something.

  


* * *

The necklace is something Keith hasn’t seen in years. It’s simple in design. A leather cord, worn and frayed, adjustable knot that has been tied and retied throughout the years. A few beads made from stones and fired clay from their homeland. 

And at the center of the necklace, the highlight, is a singular feather. 

It’s thin in appearance, looking fluffy and light. A downy feather of his youth. One of the fluffy childhood feathers that eventually fell out to be replaced by sleek, mature feathers. 

The downy feather is deep purple in color, plucked from his under wing, high and close to his back. Deep violet in the shadows, shining with shades of purple and red near the bottom, sheen brought out where it catches the light. Despite its wispy appearance, the feather is hard and stiff as metal, frozen and petrified into place with magic. Preserving it forever as a pendant, a moment of his childhood captured and vibrant. 

He has a very similar necklace. Same leather cord. Same beads. Same fraying knots. His pendant, however, is a tooth. Small and pulled into a rounded point. A child’s fang, barely threatening and barely significant. Like his own feathers, they fell out naturally to make room for mature fangs, sharper and larger. 

Like the feather, the tooth is petrified with magic, preserving it like a stone that would never tarnish or crack. 

He and Shiro made these necklaces for each other when they were young. After Shiro had found him, lost and alone. After the Marmora tribe had officially adopted him. After he had become family. Despite their differences in appearances, all vastaya were of the same blood.

He and Shiro had exchanged mementos of themselves, one night beneath the stars, after Shiro had caught Keith in an attempt to run away, feeling like he didn’t belong. They made promises to each other. Blood brothers. Friends for life. Together until the end. Perhaps not family born, but family chosen. 

There was no mistaking the necklace as anything other than the one Keith had made for Shiro all those years ago. He knew Shiro would never part with it willingly, just as Keith would never part with his. The thought that it had not only been abandoned, but found and sold by humans as a _novelty_ makes his stomach churn. Still, it’s a lead, and he hasn’t had one of those in a while. 

For now, Shiro’s necklace rests around his neck, tooth and feather pendants resting against his chest beneath his shirt. 

But he can’t dwell on the past. He has to keep moving forward. And now, thanks to the shopkeeper, he has a direction. 

  


* * *

The shopkeeper said he had bought the necklace off a traveling merchant whose hometown was a three day’s walk to the west. Keith makes the journey in two, pushing himself and cutting his way across the wilderness to stay off the main roads. He tries not to get his hopes up too high, but this is the first solid lead he’s gotten in months. 

When he does force himself to rest, he finds himself nestled in trees, staring up at the stars and wondering if Shiro can see the stars from where he is. 

And when he finally slips away into a light sleep, his dreams are haunted by a gleaming grin, eyes like the ocean, and feathers like the sky. He wakes from these dreams with a start, the echo of foreign songs fading in his ears. 

He finds himself in a human village, nearly half the size of the previous one. There are no town walls, no guards, no security. The roads are mostly packed dirt rather than cobblestone. The roofs are patched thatch instead of tile. Few of them span taller than one floor. It’s a farming town. A cluster of buildings that house shops and other professions in the center of a sprawling, loosely scattered farmlands. 

He arrives around midday, but decides to wait until nightfall. He stays near the forest edge, watching and waiting. He’s not good at waiting, but he knows it’s for the best. Smaller towns like this may not have security, but he’ll no doubt stick out more. They’ll be more likely to run him out. 

While he waits, he pulls out his Marmora blade, a dagger crafted through ore found deep within Ionian mountains and fire touched with wild magic. All the warriors of his tribe have one. While he doesn’t necessarily _need_ it when he has his feather daggers, it’s a comfort to have on him all the same. He uses the dagger to carve the Marmora symbol into a thick tree trunk, signing it off with a simple _K_. 

If any of his people come by, they’ll know he’s been here. 

He passes the rest of the time sitting in a tree, high enough to be out of sight and concealed by foliage. He spins feathers between his fingers, glowing a soft reddish pink when he hardens them into knives. He tosses them, embedding them into nearby trees and branches. Then he raises a hand, palm glowing as the feathers shake briefly before returning to his hand. He snatches them out of the air only to repeat the process. 

By the time the sun sets, he’s anxious and buzzing with energy. He shifts his cloak over his wings, pulling his hood up over his head and lying his ears down flat beneath it, before making his way to the center of town. Finding the local tavern is easy. It’s one of the biggest buildings, and the only one open this late. The windows are all lit up, and music and voices filter through the walls, leaking out louder whenever the door opens. 

It’s exactly where everyone in a small village like this would go after dark, where everyone meets when the work is done. It’s exactly where he would need to go in order to find someone. 

He reaches for the door just as it swings open, but he doesn’t manage to move in time before two women are spilling out into the night. The first stumbles into him, her friend falling into her back. He takes a step back, catching his balance as his hands automatically go to her arms to keep her steady. 

“Oh! Pardon me, I didn’t mean—“ 

Keith stops listening to her, ears perking forward against his will as he catches onto a deep, melodic laugh from inside the tavern. It’s just a laugh, but it sounds like music, and it sends a strange shiver down his spine. 

“You’re one of them!” 

His attention snaps back to the woman as she gasps. The door closes behind them, cutting off the beautiful laughter. He narrows his eyes at her, suspicion pinching his features. “What?”

“You’re one of them!” She repeats, but while her eyes are wide, her voice isn’t one of shock or fear. It’s one of awe. He lets go of her, taking a step back. “Your ears!” She says, pointing to her own head. 

Keith’s hands fly to his hood, tugging it further up over his head, covering the traitorous ears and forcing them down flat once more. 

“A _vastaya_ ,” The second woman says, leaning forward to whisper loudly in her friend’s ear. Both of them smell like smoke and cheap beer. 

“Right! A vastaya,” She says, awe melting into excitement as she smiles. “Are you here with the other one?”

He feels an eyebrow raise. “Other one?”

“Yes!” She says, half turning to gesture toward the tavern. “The blue one!” Keith follows her gesture, eyes flickering to a window as a flash of blue dances into sight. 

It’s a coincidence. It has to be. He’s not too far from the first town he had seen him in. It wouldn’t be too farfetched that they had traveled in the same direction. Still, Keith finds himself stiffening, heart pounding as a strange sensation comes over him. He wants to... run. Get away. There’s a strange allure to this vastaya with blue feathers and a devilish grin, and Keith doesn’t like it. Doesn’t like how it makes him feel. 

Still... he knows he can’t run. He has a lead that could lead to Shiro, and he can’t give up this opportunity.

“Can you sing and dance, too?” One of the women ask, he doesn’t catch which one. And frankly, he doesn’t care. 

“No,” He says, voice flat and final as he pushes past them. 

He takes a deep breath before pulling the door open and slipping into the tavern. It’s a large common room, filled with tables and chairs and benches. A fireplace is at the far end, a bar with a door to the kitchen at the back. Candles burn in cast iron holders hanging from the ceiling. It smells of cooking meat, freshly baked bread, cheaply made beer, and the pungent stench of sweat and bodies. 

It’s crowded, but no one bothers to look up as he enters. All of their eyes are cast to the side of the room with the fireplace, where the vastaya perches on the edge of a table, leaning back on one hand, head cocked to the side, and an easy grin on his lips as he weaves a tale that has the entire room captivated. In his free hand, he idly spins a gold coin between his fingers, movements smooth and nearly hypnotic. He throws it up, barely glancing at it before snatching it back out of the air.

Keith doesn’t realize he’s staring until blue eyes flick up to meet his, latching onto his gaze and refusing to let go. His words never pause, but his lips tilt upwards just a little more, eyes turning a little more coy. 

Then he _winks_ , and once again, it tears Keith out of his trance. 

He turns abruptly, ripping his gaze away from the bright blue peacock with a huff. He shakes himself, a small gesture that has his feathers rippling and ruffling beneath his cloak, before pushing further into the room. 

He had been anticipating suspicion of him, as he’s used to encountering when humans realize what he is. These people, however, barely give him much more than a curious glance. They think that he’s with the blue one, and he stops trying to correct them. Their assumptions lower their suspicions, and he’ll take advantage of that. 

He questions the bartender, who directs him to a group of merchants in a corner, who seem oddly playful given that he’s a vastaya. They offer him information if he can beat them in a game of cards. They’re humoring him. Welcoming him. And he knows it’s only this way because they assume he’s with the storyteller on the far side of the tavern. He scowls, not wanting to waste time, but he forces himself to sit and play their game.

He can hear Shiro’s voice in the back of his mind. _Patience yields_ _focus_.

The human’s game is easy, if not time consuming. None of them can seem to read his impassive expression, and while he can see their frustration, they take it in stride. The entire time he plays, he keeps one ear on the table, eyes on the game, while his other ear twists to point across the room.

The blue one is spinning tales. He picks up some of the words, but he doesn’t pay attention to the story. He does, however, listen to the man’s voice. It’s rhythmic and clear, rising and falling, creating emotion and weaving it so effortlessly into his words that it forces the audience to _feel_ it. Keith doesn’t need to look to know that he has his entire audience captivated, on the edge of their seats, held tight to every word that drips from his honied lips as he tugs them along. 

He’s talented. Keith will give him that. Charming. It’s only a shame that he wastes his talents on human entertainments. It taints his gifts. It makes a mockery of who he is, of their people. 

They are vastaya. They have ancient and powerful blood in their veins. They are beings of myth and legend, walkers of the veil between spirit and magic, flesh and blood. And yet here, in this tavern, he looks like nothing more than a pampered peacock, dressed up and shining like a doll for the humans’ enjoyment. 

It leaves a sour taste in Keith’s mouth, even as he finds himself drawn to the man’s voice, light and sweet, deep and soothing, melted sugar and raw honey. 

The merchants tell him the man he’s looking for has gone to visit family in another town, this one a five days journey back the way he had come. It’s two days by horse. He thinks he can make it there in four by foot. 

As soon as he has the information, he stands to leave, pushing his hood back over his ears and leaving the coin he had earned on the table. He slips out into the night, only able to properly breathe once the door muffles the blue vastaya’s voice. 

The further from the tavern he gets, the clearer his head becomes, night air crisp and cold in his lungs. He feels a prickle at the back of his neck, a tug in his gut, an urge that begs his feet to stop, to turn around, to look back.

He keeps moving forward, eyes stubbornly on the road ahead. 

  


* * *

The third time he sees the blue peacock, he has no warning.

One moment he’s being surrounded by guards and hostile civilians. They position themselves to appear big, squaring their shoulders and bearing their teeth, puffing out their chests as if Keith has something to fear. Some of them reach for weapons, but most just brandish their fists. 

They’re in the middle of the city’s market square, surrounded by stalls and shops and people. They had bumped into him, shouted when he ignored them, grabbed his hood and pulled, exposing his ears and his face. They had grown even more hostile not long after, when one of them had recognized him and called for the guards. 

His cloak is pushed back, wings and feathered bared, hunched into a defensive stance, fingers reaching for his feathers, magic already crackling at his fingertips, flowing through his veins.

He hadn’t _meant_ to get into a fight, but fights always seem to follow him. He has a reputation that precedes him, and he doesn’t exactly help to dispel it. It doesn’t help that pent up energy, frustration, and irritation has him often _itching_ for a fight. 

But before they can home to blows, there’s a flash of blue, feathers brushing against his face, causing him to straighten and take a surprised step back. The magic leaks from his fingers, slipping away as he blinks, taking in the vastaya in front of him.

He stands between Keith and his aggressors, and the startled humans have taken several steps back, staring at him in wide eyed surprise. The vastaya bends down low, picking up several of the apples that had fallen to the ground when Keith bumped into a stand. As he straightens, he casts a glance over his shoulder, catching Keith’s eye. 

Up close, Keith can see the soft fluff around his ears, how the blue tips match some of the lighter colors down his feathers, how the marks on his face curve to highlight his sharp bone structure, how they match his eyes. His chestnut brown hair is messy and disheveled, giving him a look of wild abandon that’s oddly alluring. His nose turns up at the end. His chin is jawline is sharp. His eyes seem to glint in the sunlight as they look at him, crinkling at the edges in what is plainly amusement, lips curved up into a cavalier smirk. 

Keith feels himself bristling, feathers ruffling as his wings rise higher off his back. His lips purse, twisting into a deep frown, brows pinching as he glares. It’s clear that this man thinks of himself as Keith’s savior, when Keith hadn’t needed saving to begin with.

Before he can voice that, however, the man is turning away, back to the humans who’s surprise has faded to wary suspicion. 

He stands at ease, weight lazily to one side, wings held high to obscure Keith from view. His wings are thick, feathers sleek and wide, glistening in the sun with far too many shades to name. Keith has never thought of feathers as beautiful. They’ve always been apart of him. Something he never put much thought into. They always set him apart. 

But this vastaya... his feathers are beautiful. Objectively, that is.

“And what seems to be the problem here?” He says, voice smooth and casual, lifting at the edges like his smile, light and easy. He tosses an apple up into the air, tilting his head to watch it as it rises and then falls back into his palm. 

“This doesn’t concern you,” One of the men snaps. 

Keith can’t see the vastaya’s face, but he can hear the amusement in his voice as he says, “Doesn’t it? Now tell me, what has my companion here done?”

Keith scoffs at the word _companion_ rolling his eyes. He’s startled when a tail flicks out and slaps against his shins. He stares, eyes wide with surprise and lips gone slack. A tail? This vastaya has a tail? It’s not the thick muscle of Shiro’s tail. It’s lightweight and thin, as wispy as the rest of him, widening into a cluster of dark blue feathers, tipped with light blue patterned eyes like the feathers at the end of his wings.

“He’s the Raven of Marmora!” Comes a shout, drawing Keith out of his reverie. The nickname isn’t one he gave himself, and it’s not one that he’s entirely opposed to, but it’s still said with enough venom that it has Keith bristling.

The blue vastaya doesn’t seem fazed. He merely shifts his weight, easy smile clear in his voice as he says, “Perhaps, but do you know who _I_ am?” He gives a little spin, a flourish that his his wings spread wide and feathers catching the sun. He then begins to _juggle_. 

The display is ridiculous, unorthodox, and completely idiotic. But it has the humans distracted, and that’s all Keith needs. Still shielded from view by the vastaya’s wings, Keith slips away, pulling his cloak back over his own feathers, tugging his hood back over his head. 

He doesn’t have time for this. Doesn’t have time for this feathered buffoon or a fight with civilians. He has a merchant to find. A lead to follow. 

But as he rounds the corner, leaving the market square behind, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder. 

 

* * *

✦ ✧ _The Vastayan named the world. We named the trees, the wind, the mountains. We know their power_ ✧ ✦

  


* * *

The traveling merchant ends up trying to sell his information for one of Keith’s feathers. Keith ends up getting the information by promising the merchant that he would be allowed to keep all of his fingers and toes. After he learns where the man had found the necklace in the first place, Keith slips away into the night, leaving nothing but a couple silver pieces for the man’s silence. 

He follows the man’s directions, sticking near the dirt packed human roads, but staying far enough away to avoid being seen. 

He finds himself in a section of forest that’s densely wooded, off to the side and far between human settlements. It’s a path that is the quickest way between cities, but a way that is usually avoided due to the fact that it weaves close to vastayan territory. 

Under normal circumstances, this would be a comfort. However, in this instance, it’s not. 

While there _is_ magic in the air, it’s not the warm flow of life. It’s not a breath of fresh air. It’s not the cooling sensation of standing in a river beneath the hot sun. It’s not _relief_. 

The magic in the air feels heavy. It feels dark. It feels _tainted_. There’s an odd acrid smell to the air. It’s barely noticeable, but it leaves a sour taste on his tongue where it lingers. He can feel it crawling across his skin, making his hair stand on end and his feathers ruffle. His body naturally reaches out to the magic in the air, the magic that flows through these forests like life, but he recoils from it. It feels _wrong_. 

Unfortunately, he _knows_ this feeling. He recognizes this magic taint. It’s twisted. Unnatural. Pollution. A toxin in the life force of Ionia. _Shadow magic_. 

Fortunately, that means the galra are nearby, which means it’s entirely possible that Shiro is being held somewhere around here. Especially given the fact that his necklace was found near here. 

The merchant hadn’t been sure exactly where he had found the necklace, but it had been somewhere off the main path when he was rooting around for something to eat. Luckily, Keith doesn’t need exact directions. Now that he’s here, now that he can feel the galra’s influence, all he has to do is poke around until he finds them.

The wild magic here is tainted, constricted, and stained, but it’s still shining through beneath the metaphorical tar. It’s still thriving, if only barely. It’s a good sign. It means that the galra haven’t completely corrupted the ley lines around here. Not that he doesn’t know how to repair corrupted ley lines, but it’s much easier to rub out a stain than coax a whole new flow through a dry riverbed. 

The stench of shadow magic is thick, which means they’ve been here for a while. He knows there’s no temple in this area, so the galra can’t just take the magic from the source. They have to syphon it, which takes much longer. They no doubt have some sort of base. And where there is a base, there’s organized galra activity. Where there is organized galra activity, there are prisoners. 

Where there are prisoners, there is a chance he might find Shiro.

He deviates from the man made paths, diving into the woods. He creeps through the trees, letting his fingertips brush along the bark, listening in ways that only vastaya can. He can feel the shadow magic getting thicker. He’s getting close. He can taste it on his tongue. Feels the slight burn in his lungs. 

He finds another road, one that is much smaller, much rougher. It’s not the main path rambled by humans and horses and carts. This one isn’t used as frequently. No doubt going to a place that isn’t often visited. The hair on the back of his neck stands on end, and he crouches low, a little ways off the path. He presses one hand to the ground and closes his eyes. 

He listens to the ley lines, deep within the earth, the flow of wild magic throughout the land. He can hear its silent scream. He can feel the stain. He can feel how weak it’s become. If he listens carefully, he might be able to find the source. Where shadow magic is slowly choking out the wild magic, corrupting it. 

If he just... focuses...

Music makes his ears perk up, twisting to find the source. 

His eyes snap open, and he lifts his head, brow furrowing as he turns. He can’t see anything, but he can _hear_ it. It’s not loud music, nor is it complicated. Casual plucks of strings, rhythmic and light. 

He shouldn’t follow it. He knows he shouldn’t. But suspicions are nagging at him, irritation pushing him to his feet. Each plucked note tugs him through the forest, searching for the source. 

As he gets closer, he can hear humming, light and lilting, calm and casual and fleeting. 

Then the music stops, and Keith freezes, ears twisting this way and that, trying to pick up anything. There’s a rustle from above, the flutter of feathers. weight hitting the ground behind him. 

He whirls, dropping into a crouch, wing flaring and fingers hovering near it, ready to pluck feathers if necessary. 

The blue vastaya stands there, light on his feet, tall and proud. His wings are flared, on display without being too obvious about it. There’s a lute in his hands, but he’s no longer playing it. The smirk on his lips is no doubt designed to be charming, as is the way he tilts his head, eyes lidding as he meets Keith’s glare unflinchingly. 

He’s _preening_ , and it makes Keith’s gut flare with irritation. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” The man practically purrs, voice low and smooth, dark and honied. He leans forward just a fraction, tilting his head. 

Keith straightens, standing tall and lifting his chin, sizing up the other vastaya. The other might be taller, but it’s only by a few finger widths. Keith certainly has the height if ears are counted. He flares his wings out a fraction, but it’s not for show. It’s a threat. “Are you following me?”

His smirk widens, if only minutely. “I like to think of it as fate bringing us together again and again—“

Keith doesn’t let him finish. He rushes forward, deeply satisfied at the surprised squawk that escapes the other man as he scrambles backwards. Keith backs him into a tree, plucking a feather with one fluid motion, magic crackling hot and red across his fingertips as he hardens and sharpens the feather, consistency equal to that of a steel blade. 

He holds it to the man’s throat, not quite touching but close enough to make him sweat. “Who are you and why are you following me?” He snaps, leaning into the man’s space. 

He stares at Keith, eyes wide and jaw slack, body pressed tight against the tree trunk. His lute has fallen from his grip, lying abandoned and forgotten on the ground. 

His surprise, however, only lasts a moment before he recovers. cocky confidence leaking back into his features and fixing them back into the smirk that Keith has grown familiar with. “Now, now, there’s no need for that.” He says, voice smooth as silk, low and calming. He reaches up, attempting to push Keith’s hand away with gentle fingers. 

Keith doesn’t budge. 

The man sighs, irritation flickering behind his eyes as he rolls them. When he looks at Keith again, there’s more of a spark there, a challenge, something harder. His smirk is still there, but it’s no longer flirtatious. It’s amused and wry. “I’m not here to hurt you.” He says, voice more honest, a silent laugh lifting the edges of his words. “Besides, you could skin me alive before I could even try.”

The way he says it leaves no room for doubt. He’s certain of that statement. A fact. Keith might be flattered if he wasn’t confused. 

He takes a step back, then two. Slow and wary as he keeps his eyes narrowed on the other man. He lowers his feather dagger, but keeps it in his hand. It’s a comforting weight in an unfamiliar situation. “You know who I am?”

The man pushes off the tree, making a show of brushing off his clothes and shaking out his wings. The spark in his eyes is back, the charming tilt to his lips. “Everyone knows of the Raven of Marmora. Your reputation precedes you.” He drops into a low bow, every line of his body smooth and graceful, wings catching the light and accentuating every dip and curve. “It’s a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”

He straightens, hands perched on his hips, chest puffed up, wings out. He stares at Keith expectantly, grin wide and proud. 

Keith stares right back, one brow rising. He doesn’t know what to expect from this situation. This vastaya knows who Keith is, but hasn’t offered his own name in response. Isn’t that what was expected of these conversations? It’s been a long time since Keith has gone through this. But the silence is stretching and the man i still looking at him expectantly. He supposes he’ll have to hurry this along so he can get him to _go away_ , and he can get back to his search. 

“And... you are?” He tries. 

Doubt flickers across the man’s face. The sparkle in his eyes dims as his brows furrow, smirk fading rapidly. He looks utterly baffled. “You... don’t know who I am?” 

“No,” Keith says, lips pursing. The man looks crestfallen, and Keith finds himself feeling like he needs to offer him _something_. “You’re a performer.”

“Well, _yeah_ ,” He says, tilting his head as his shoulders sag, chest deflating. “But you don’t know _who_ I _am_?” He asks, toeing the line between begging and incredulous. 

Keith gives him a blank look, crossing his arms over his chest as he offers a one shouldered shrug. 

“You’ve got to be— _oh my spirits_ ,” The man says, voice rising. One hand on his hip, he runs his other through his hair, making it wilder. He turns on his heels, stalking away for several paces before whirling back around, arms and wings splayed wide. “Name’s _Lance_? Famous performer, singer, storyteller, _battle-dancer?_ ”

He looks at Keith expectantly, smile crawling back up his lips. 

Keith shrugs again. “I’ve never heard of you.”

“Are you—“ His entire body deflates again, smile dropping into a small frown, bordering on a pout. He sighs, picking himself back up, picking up the shattered remains of his composure. He straightens, but he’s no longer puffed up with pride. “No matter, you’ve met me now. And may I have the pleasure of your name?”

Keith stiffens. “Why?”  

Lance’s smirk turns a little more genuine. “Well I can’t very well go around calling you _Raven of Marmora_. That’s a bit of a mouthful.”

“Keith,” He says after a moment of hesitation. It’s a gruff grunt of defeat. He’s not… used to giving out his name. No one ever asks. 

“Keith…” Lance repeats, strangely wistful, slow, like he’s tasting it on his tongue. It makes Keith bristle, but he doesn’t know why.

There’s a rustling that has Keith’s ears whirling. His attention snaps to the side, following the source of the sound. He doesn’t see anything, but there’s a sickly feeling creeping into his gut, twisting his insides. The taste on his tongue is bitter. He feels a small wave of distorted magic shift past him, brushing past, alerting him to their presence. 

“You need to leave,” Keith says, cutting off whatever ramble the vastaya, _Lance_ , has gone off on. He had stopped listening the moment he felt the presence of shadow magic. 

He glances over when he hears a series of indignant sputters. “I just got here!”

Keith glares at him hard, lips pressed into a thin line. “And now you need to go. _Now_.”

Lance stands his ground, crossing his arms over his chest, meeting Keith’s glare with one of his own. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“ _Lance_ ,” Keith snaps. 

Which only serves to make his lips quirk up at the edges. “Oh, so he _does_ know my name.”

Keith sighs in frustration, the sound trailing off into a growl. “We don’t have _time_ for this—“ He cuts himself off as another subtle wave of shadow magic pushes at him, rippling the air around him. 

This time, even Lance seems to feel it. He stiffens, smirk falling instantly as his eyes widen, blue irises going hard as they dart around. His stance falls just a fraction, wings rising, shoulder’s squaring. “What was that?” He asks, and for the first time, there’s no hint of a smile in his voice, no humor, no hidden joke. The confidence is still there, but it’s harder, stronger, fiercer. Demanding an answer.    


Keith is surprised by the instant switch, but now isn’t the time to dwell on it. 

“ _That_ ,” He says through clenched teeth, eyes darting in every direction, looking for movement. “Is the reason why you need to _leave_.”

“I’m not leaving you here alone,” Lance says, stern and unyielding. 

Without really realizing it, he’s turned his back to Lance, and he’s a little surprised to find that Lance has done the same for him. They stand close enough that he can feel their feathers brush together, sending shivers down his spine. Back to back, they keep their eyes on the forest around them. 

Keith’s fingers reach for his wings, plucking out the first feathers he feels, magic hardening them instantly. He holds them between his fingers, a familiar weight. “I don’t need your help.”   


To his surprise, he hears a soft chuckle. “I know you don’t.” Lance says, and that amused lilt is back in his voice. Keith glances over his shoulder to catch Lance eyeing him sidelong, a smirk lifting his cheek, crinkling the corner of his eye. “But I can’t let you have _all_ the fun.”   


There’s a dangerous glint to his eye, a confidence in the way he holds himself. Fearless. Strong. Confident.    


It sends something foreign and warm rushing through him, heart fluttering in a way it most definitely shouldn’t.    


“Don’t get in my way,” Keith says.    


He doesn’t laugh, but it’s clear in his voice, warm and soft. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”   


There’s a rustling. Footsteps. Another surge of shadow magic in the air. Keith’s ears whirl, head snapping in the direction of the sound. 

But then there’s a sting on his neck, quick and piercing. He lets out a surprised sound, hearing Lance echo it behind him. His hands slaps to his neck, finding something there. He pulls it out, ignoring the sting as he stares down at the dart in his palm, the metal tip glistening menacingly. 

He turns, vision blurring and whirling, mind struggling slow to catch up, making everything move at half speed. He blinks rapidly, desperately trying to fight off the gray dots that crowd the edges of his vision. Lance is standing there, looking at a similar dart in his hand. 

His lips purse, brows furrowing, staring down at the dart as if it were nothing more than a minor inconvenience, like a glass of spilled milk or unexpected rain. “Well,” he says, lips moving slowly, voice sounding sluggish. Keith hears his voice as if he were far away. “That can’t be good.”

He looks up, clouded blue eyes meeting Keith’s. 

And that’s the last thing Keith sees before darkness overtakes him. 

  


* * *

The first thing he becomes aware of is the cold stone beneath him. It’s like ice seeping through his clothes, through the thin layer of his feathers, hard and unforgiving. He feels aches in his joints, bruises rising to the surface in various places. Whoever had handled him while he had been unconscious had not been gentle.   


The second thing he becomes aware of is the stench. It smells of damp earth and wet stone. Rotting hay, sweat, and piss. He’s been in enough prisons to know what one smells like, and as the realization dawns on him, he accepts it with a flicker of irritation.   


The third thing he becomes aware of is the _air_. No, not the air. The _magic_. The wild magic here feels choked, tainted, _twisted_. It’s dark and draining, sliding across his skin like invisible sludge, making his lungs thick with it, making his body shiver with disgust.   


Shadow magic. Prison. Galra.   


He opens his eyes, giving them a moment to adjust to the darkness. The only lighting comes from a dim lantern hanging outside his cell. For walls of stone. A low hanging ceiling. A stone floor scattered with dirt. A pile of soiled hay in the corner. A fourth wall that’s entirely metal bars, giving him a glimpse into the stone hallway.   


He’s alone. Which isn’t anything new, but he wasn’t alone when he was taken. He feels a roll of _something_ through him. Worry? Guilt? He can’t tell. He can’t dwell on it. Right now, all he can focus on is his own situation.   


He sits up, rolling his shoulders, feeling the aches and kinks in his back. He shuffles his wings, trying to stretch them out. They’re stiff and bruised from mishandling and from laying between him and stone. He flares them out, twisting to run his fingers reverently through them. His feathers are ruffled, out of place, some of them bent.   


He doesn’t get far into his grooming before he hears a heavy door open, footsteps, whispered voices, rattling of chains.   


He stiffens, pushing himself to his feet to hover in a low crouch. His mind is still foggy along the edges, not working as quickly as he wants it to. His body feels stiff and uncooperative. Whatever toxin they used to knock him out, it’s still in his system. But he’s not going down without a fight.

They appear in the hall outside his cell, all dressed in dark robes to obscure their bodies, eyes glowing yellow beneath their masks. He bears his teeth, growl ripping from his throat. He reaches for his feathers, but when he reaches for his magic, he only gets a few crackles, a couple sparks, before it fizzles out.

He stares at his hands in horror. There’s something in his veins, in his body, a press on his magic, dampening his attachment to it, keeping him from fully accessing his magic. He feels... defenseless without it. Hollow. Vulnerable. His eyes snap back to his captors, eyes wide as fear prickles at the back of his neck. 

His hand goes to his waist, but his Marmoran blade is gone as well.

He fights as they push into his cell, primal and rabid, clawing and flailing with all his waning strength. They subdue him easily, hands rough on his arms, on his wings, chains containing him as they drag him out of the cell. Still he fights, because that’s all he has left to do.   


* * *

When he wakes again, it’s a slow rise to consciousness. His mind is foggy, shying away from the aches and pains in his body. He barely remembers the questioning. Barely remembers the questions. He remembers biting back responses. He remembers cursing them and keeping his mouth shut. He remembers clenching his teeth against the pain.

They hadn’t gotten anything out of him, but he knows they’re not done with him yet. This is only a brief respite before they go at him again. They asked him about the Blade of Marmora. They asked him about the vastaya. They asked him about wild magic. They asked him what he was doing.

He gave them nothing but his screams, and his throat feels raw from it.

Pain is nothing new. Torture is nothing new. He’ll find a way out of it. He always does. He just needs time.

Back in his cell, laid out on the unforgiving stone, he feels oddly calm.

It takes him a moment to realize he hears humming. It’s soft and muted, but echoes over the dead space between the stones. It sounds eerily haunting, but it’s not unpleasant. It whispers across his skin, chasing away the irritation of shadow magic, filling him with a strange warmth.. He’s drawn to it, if only because it’s a spark of familiarity, of warmth, in his otherwise cold cell.

He pushes himself to sit up, ignoring the way his body protests. He drags himself across the cell, leaning his shoulder against the stone wall, letting his wings rest out behind him. They feel bruised and twisted. He longs to straighten his feathers, to groom them, but his arms feel so heavy and weak. His stomach growls painfully. He doesn’t know how much time has passed.

He’s closer to the humming, but as soon as he settles back down to listen, it stops.

“Morning, sleeping beauty,” Comes the soft voice, low and hoarse, but still managing to lift at the edges. Keith gets the distinct impression of a smile. A tired smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“So you _are_ alive,” Keith says, oddly relieved, feeling his lips trying to twitch up into a smirk, but being unable to do it.

“Indeed, I am.” He says, and while Keith finds it incredibly frustrating that he always manages to sound amused, right now, the lightness of his tone is a comfort. Just his _voice_ is a comfort. “A little worse for wear, but alive.”

Keith tries to swallow past the lump in his throat, licking dry and cracked lips. There’s a cut there, and he tastes the metallic edge of blood. “Did they...?”

“Question me? Yes. Quite thoroughly.” There’s a grimace in his voice, a exhaustion that he can’t hide.

“Are you...” Keith starts, trailing off.

There’s an indigent scoff, a ruffle of feathers. “It’ll take a lot more than that to break me.”

Keith feels himself giving into that smile, but it’s quickly sobered. “What did they ask you?”

“Mostly about the Marmora tribe. About _you_. They seem to think we’re partners.” There’s an amusement there, one that has Keith bristling.

Which reminds him... “Why were you following me?” He asks, sitting up a little straighter, staring at the stone wall like he might be able to see through it. He’s certain Lance is in the cell next to him, judging from the direction of his voice. For once, Lance is silent, and it hangs heavy in the damp air of their cells.

“I... don’t really know.”

“You don’t _know_?” Keith feels himself bristling further, feathers ruffling, defensive, confused. He frowns. “So you admit you were following me?”

“Yes,” Comes the soft answer. “I was.”

“ _Why_?”

“I guess... I just thought you were interesting. I wanted to know more about you.” The answer is thoughtful. His voice is no longer amused, but there’s something else there that has Keith’s heart pounding uncomfortably.

He frowns, rolling his eyes as he mutters bitterly, “Yeah, well, now you’re a prisoner of the galra. I doubt your curiosity was worth it.”

A soft chuckle that has shivers running down Keith’s spine. “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”

Before Keith can question him further, the door at the end of the hall opens, spilling light and shadows along the floor in front of his cell. He stiffens, wings flaring out threateningly. But the robed galra pass right past his cell. Only the last one in the line spares him a glance. It’s quick and fleeting, and he can’t read anything behind that mask.

They open Lance’s cell, and he hears rustling as they pull him to his feet. Keith holds his breath as they drag him out, as they pass in front of his cell.

Lance doesn’t fight. Not like Keith had. They’re rough with him anyway, chaining his hands behind his back, tugging it roughly, pushing him so he stumbles, shoving his wings if they get in his way. As they pass in front of Keith’s cell, Lance tilts his head to catch his gaze. There’s a purple bruise surrounding one eye, bottom lip swollen and cut. His face, arms, and exposed chest are littered with bruises and cuts, letting Keith know that he may not have fought like Keith had, but he hadn’t gone silently.

“Guess it’s my turn.” He says, light and teasing, as if they were talking about rounds of drinks and not rounds of questioning, of torture. Despite the wince of pain, his lips tug up into the barest of smiles, sending Keith a subtle wink as the galra shove him along the hallway, out of sight.

Keith tries to rest, but sleep is hard to come by when his mind is elsewhere, heart caught between twisting at the thought of Lance’s screams and fluttering at the thought of his soft humming.

 

* * *

When they haul Lance back to his cell, his feet are dragging, body limp in their grip. His wings hang down his back, one of them at an awkward angle that has Keith wincing. His tail drags on the floor behind him. His feathers, once beautiful and blue, are dingy and dirty, coated with a layer of grime and blood. His head his hanging, face shadowed, but Keith thinks he can see more bruises.

He doesn’t have time to dwell on it, nor does he have time to ask if Lance is okay. As soon as the door to Lance’s cell is closed, they come for Keith.

They drag him out of his own cell kicking and screaming   


* * *

Keith tries not to give them the satisfaction of his pain. He shouts and he curses, but his throat is hoarse with rage.

The scream that tears through him when they break his wing is raw, primal, and the shattered sound of a beast in pain.

He blacks out not long after that, consciousness shying away from the pain, away from that reality, hiding from the world in the comfort of darkness, curling around the core of magic inside him, smothered and constricted but pulsing with pain and rage and the desire to _survive_.   


* * *

He wakes with a silent shout caught on the lump in his throat. His right wing lays heavy down his back, against his shoulder and arm. Limb. Lifeless. He tries to move it, and sharp pain shoots through him, sharp and piercing, leaving an after ache of a knot in his gut.

He lays on his left side, cheek pressed to the cold stone, and for once he welcomes it, tries to ground himself in that sensation. A choked sob escapes him, muffled and yet still loud in the dead space. He tries to curl a little tighter around himself, but movement hurts.

And then there’s a voice. A song. It starts softly, not so much breaking through the silence as rising through it, pushing it gently aside. It swells, echoing hauntingly through the thick, stagnant air. It stays soft, but loud enough that Keith can hear it clearly. He doesn’t understand the words, but he can feel their power. An old vastayan tongue. The same one Lance had sung in when Keith had first seen him, but it’s not the same song. It’s more somber. Cradling. Soothing. Comforting.

Keith closes his eyes and lets it wash over him. Lets Lance’s voice and the words of their ancestors wrap around him, glide across his skin, chasing the stick and weight of shadow magic away. It settles into his bones, easing the shaking of his limbs, soothes his rattled nerves.

When the song fades out, the silence in its wake is unwelcome. Keith licks his lips, taking in a shuddering breath. “What song is that?” His voice is raw and hoarse, rasping past the lump in his throat.   


“You don’t know it?” Comes the soft reply. His voice only sounds slightly better than Keith’s own. What he wouldn’t give for water. 

Keith shakes his head out of habit before he remembers that Lance can’t see him. “No,” He says, then softer, “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s... a song of our people.”   


“I recognized it as an old vastayan tongue.”

“But you don’t know it.” He says. It’s not a question, but there’s an air of sorrow about it. 

“No...” Keith says. He doesn’t know what possesses him to feel the need to explain himself. To defend himself. Perhaps it’s the distant disappointment in Lance’s tone. Perhaps it’s just to fill the silence. Perhaps it’s just to keep hearing Lance’s voice. “They sang in a different tongue in the Marmora tribe.”

“I suppose they would,” Lance says airy, thoughtfully. “I sing in the old Lhotlan tongue. Our ancestors’ songs.”

“Our ancestors...” Keith echoes. All vastaya share the same ancestors at their distant roots. They all came from the same area of Ionia before spreading out and settling different tribes. Before adopting specific characteristics. But Lance has said _our ancestors_ in a way that sounded very specific. Not the general ancestors of their kind, but the more specific ones that both he and Keith derive from. 

Keith has always thought of their ancestors in the general sense. In a way that connected him to the Marmora tribe. 

“Yes,” Lance says, voice dropping low and soft. “You’re Lhotlan, too.” It’s a fact. Certain. Indisputable. Even as it’s said with a gentle prod. 

“I... suppose I am.” 

There’s a soft chuckle. It sounds like music in the dead space of their cells. “Why do you sound so surprised by that?”

“I’ve... never thought of myself as anything other than vastaya or Marmoran.”   


“So you never grew up knowing of your people?” That hint of sorrow is back.   


“The Marmora tribe _are_ my people.” He says, bristling, defensive. But he can’t find the energy to put much heat into it, and it ends up coming out more pitiful than intended.    


“I know. They raised you, right? That’s what the rumors say.”

“Yes...” That should be enough, but he finds himself wanting to say _more_. He _never_ wants to say more than what’s necessary. He doesn’t know if it’s because he craves a distraction from the pain, or if it’s because of Lance. “They found me when I was young. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t... know anything about the Lhotlan tribes. I don’t know which one they came from.” 

“You don’t know anything at all?” He sounds mystified. Keith supposes that’s better than pitying.

“The Marmorans tried, but they didn’t know much themselves. I grew up learning their lore. Their songs. You’re...” He pauses, licking cracked lips, wondering why his heart flutters in his chest like a caged bird. “You’re the first other Lhotlan I’ve ever met.”

“Really?” He sounds positively _pleased_. Keith can practically _hear_ the smirk in his voice. Can _hear_ the way he puffs himself up, preening like the peacock he is. “And what’d you think?” He asks, voice dropped low, a purr, even if it’s ragged and hoarse. 

“Loud.” Keith says flatly. “A show off. An idiot. Flashy. Obnoxious.”

He’s expecting an indignant response, maybe to provoke something angrier, a banter. Instead he gets a laugh. A low chuckle that gets louder until it devolves into coughs. Where his heart flutters at the sound of his laugh, it clenches as the sound of cough ripping out of rattling lungs. 

It occurs to him that he doesn’t know how hurt Lance is. He sounds fine, but from what he’s seen of Lance, he knows better than to trust that cheerful demeanor.

“They broke my wing,” He says into the silence, voice somber and broken. He doesn’t know why he says it. Doesn’t know why he offers that information instead of merely asking Lance how he’s fairing. He’s not asking for pity. Perhaps he just needed to say it aloud. Make the information real. Because he’s still having a hard time accepting it. 

There’s a deep inhale from the cell next to him, following by a long hissing exhale. “They did the same to me.” Comes the soft reply, barely whispered.

They don’t offer apologies, nor do they offer condolences. Keith doesn’t pity Lance, but he does feel sympathy. There’s a silent camaraderie between them, one that grows from a shared pain. A personal pain. 

But there’s only so long that Keith can stand the silence. Only so long before the aches of his body become overwhelming again. “Will you teach me more Lhotlan songs?” It’s a soft request, one that he almost wishes he could take back, half hoping Lance hadn’t heard him at all.

“Only if you teach me some Marmoran songs sometime.” Lance throws back, teasing, light, far too much given the circumstances.

Still, it makes Keith smile. Small, barely there, but felt nonetheless. “No promises.”

“With you? I’ll take what I can get.”

And then Lance begins to sing for him again, soft and lilting. His voice is angelic, combined with ancient words that hold a power of their own, whispers of the magic of their homelands. Keith closes his eyes, letting it wrap around him, lull him into a state of half sleep. 

He doesn’t know how Lance can manage to sing when in this situation, but perhaps he, too, needs a distraction. 

  


* * *

Keith has never been good at keeping track of time. Time to the vastaya isn’t a solid construct. It ebbs and flows like the magic in their veins. Their lifespans are long, and time is told in the passage of stars. They can feel it in the spread of humans, encroaching on their lands. They can feel it in the strengthening of shadow magic. 

Keith tells time in moments. In days. In weeks. Months. Years. 

Here, in the dark, damp of his cell, he loses all concept of time. Time is told in the space between his meals. In the space between being questioned. In the moments where he sleeps fitfully. 

He eats the bland food offered because he knows he has to. He has to keep up his strength, even as this place drains it from him. He meditates when he sleeps, curling his mind and soul around the magic in his core, protecting it from the creeping shadow magic that threatens to seep through his pores. 

He thinks there’s something in the food that’s keeping him from accessing his magic, but he can’t afford to stop eating to find out.

He doesn’t know how often they question him. Lance says it’s no more than once a day, and while Keith feels like it’s more than that, Lance seems to be better at telling time. Keith knows for certain that he’s questioned more often than Lance is, but he’s fine with that. He’s the one associated with the Blade of Marmora, the only vastayan group actively fighting against the galra. They must have realized that Lance knows nothing, despite his claims that when questioned, he gives them no indication that he is or isn’t with Keith. 

Keith is fine with this. He can handle pain. He’s used to it. He doesn’t like seeing Lance in pain. Doesn’t like hearing the strain in his voice and the hiss in his breaths. He doesn’t like that he cares. 

Mostly, they’re left alone. Alone to lick their wounds and stave off their aches and pains. Keith has never minded silence. He’s spent a lot of his life in silence. The Marmorans aren’t particularly talkative, and after the destruction of their home and the formation of the Blade, he and Shiro have been on their own. He talks to Shiro, but Shiro is someone with whom Keith can enjoy a comfortable silence. Since Shiro has gone missing, silence has been Keith’s only constant companion.

He’s finding that he hates silence with Lance. Perhaps it’s because he can’t _see_ Lance, but he hates when the cells are filled with nothing but strained breaths. It grates against his skin like shadow magic. He only feels better when he can hear Lance’s voice. It’s a comfort. It’s a relief. It’s a reminder that he’s not alone here, beaten, magicless, and with a broken wing. It reminds him that Lance is well enough to speak. 

They talk a lot. They talk about nothing. They talk about everything. They don’t know if and when the galra are listening, so they say nothing important. But they speak to fill the silence. They speak to find comfort in one another. They speak to distract from the pain and the heavy press of shadow magic and the thick, stagnant air. 

Lance tells him stories of his performances. He tells Keith of the times he’s angered villages and of the times he’s accidentally started bar fights. He talks about his narrow escapes, of his grand performances, and he speaks of his successes and failures both with such pride. He’s a storyteller, through and through. He knows how to make his voice rise and fall. He knows how to build suspense, how to create impact. He knows how to make Keith laugh, even if it’s only a low, breathy chuckle. 

Keith, in turn, is not a storyteller. He doesn’t know how to weave a tale to make it interesting. He doesn’t know how to embellish or create a scene with just his words. But Lance hangs on his words anyway. Encourages him to keep going, even when Keith is certain he must be boring him. 

He tells Lance about some of the fights he’s gotten into in human settlements. They bond over bar fights. He tells Lance of all the ridiculous things humans have done to get the upper hand on him. He’s surprised when he finds he can make Lance laugh, and he’s surprised even more when he realizes he _likes_ it. 

When the nights grow long and the anticipation of their next questioning makes them somber, they talk of other things. Lance tells him of Lhotlan lore, and Keith tells him of Marmoran legends. They find common ground in the stars, of constellations. They talk of the ones that are the same, known by all vastaya, and they talk of ones that are specific to their tribes. 

Lance says he wants to show Keith the constellations he’s talking about, to lay beneath the blanket of the night sky and point them out.

Keith isn’t sure that’s a good idea, but he keeps his thoughts to himself. 

Time feels stagnant and still, but it keeps moving. Sometimes sluggish, sometimes with bursts of motion. He counts time in how his bruises form and fade. In how his pains go from sharp to dull aches. 

He spends the time speaking with Lance, his fingers carding through his feathers. His hands are dirty. His feathers are filthy. But any sort of grooming helps. And the constant motion is soothing. So he straightens his feathers, brushes them back into place, stretches the aches from them. He’s never been vain, but he misses the gleam of his feathers under the sun, misses their soft, silky texture.    


He has fleeting thoughts of what it might be like to touch Lance’s feathers.

When Lance is taken for questioning and Keith is left alone, he spends the moments calculating his escape, planning and plotting. It’s not a question of _if_ , but simply a matter of _when_. 

And _when_ he escapes, he’s going to make certain that Lance is with him.   


 

* * *

 

Keith realizes too late that he’s been foolish. 

He had assumed that because he’s a known member of the Blade, infamous in his strikes against the spread of galra influence, that he would be a priority prisoner. He had assumed that his usefulness would give him time. Time to plan. Time to find a way to escape. That all he had to do was wait it out, deal with the pain, keep avoiding questions. 

He hadn’t realized that the galra did not, in fact, find him that useful if he continued to keep his mouth shut. 

He didn’t realize that their patience had a timer that had been ticking.

He doesn’t realize this until the timer runs out. 

They’ve threatened him. They’ve ripped out some feathers. They’ve broken his wing. They’ve hit him. They’ve cut him. They’ve overrun him with shadow magic, tearing him apart from the inside. They’ve threatened more, but deep down, he never believed them. He stared at them, unflinching and strong. Despite the weakness of his body, his will was strong. 

It isn’t until they pin him to the floor, arms and legs chained up and pulled taught, heavy hands holding his broken wing out straight, a flash of metal catching the light as they pull out an axe, that he really, truly feels fear. 

His body freezes at the sight of the axe, eyes widening and jaw clenching. Adrenaline burns through his veins. They ask him questions again. The usual questions. Demanding information on the Blade. Their movements. Locations of temples and vastaya tribes. Keith can barely hear them over the pound of his heartbeat in his ears.

He’s not proud of how he begs. How he pleads. Of the tears that burn hot in his eyes and fall down his cheeks as he’s faced with the axe. They don’t listen. They want answers, and answers aren’t something he can give them. 

“We have no use for a bird who won’t sing,” One of them says, the leader, the one who always asks the questions. 

“ _Please_ ,” He begs, voice gone ragged, tongue feeling thick and sluggish, lump in his throat choking. “ _Don’t! Stop!_ ”

“If you won’t sing, we’ll clip your wings and move you to the arena. It’s been awhile since they’ve had Lhotlan blood.”

Keith screams as the axe falls, deafening and raw, but the ache in his throat is nothing compared to the white hot pain as the steel cuts through his wing bone. 

He must have blacked out, swallowed whole and retreating into himself as shock overtakes his body. When he regains consciousness, he’s being dragged against damp stones, thrown into his cell, falling to the hard, unforgiving floor with a groan. The cell door swings shut behind him, clanking loudly in the dead air. 

His entire back burns. It’s a pain that aches like pulses of fire, waves of heat that spread out through his entire torso, ending in tingles at his fingertips and toes. His chest feels tight. Each breath is shallow. He feels like he can’t get enough air. Each beat of his heart brings a sharp, twisting sting to where the broken skin and bone protrude from his back. His back and remaining feathers feel wet from his own blood, air cooling it, feeling sticky. The cold stone against his cheek is strangely welcome as fire rages through his body. 

Then he hears another cell door open, shuffling, rustling, noises of protest. It takes him a moment to realize what’s happening, for his mind to really catch up to his surroundings. 

Lance.

They’re taking Lance. 

“Keith?” The voice jerks him back to the present, makes his whole body tense, back spasming with it. There’s the sound of rattling chains in front of his cell. “ _Keith?_ ”

He lifts his head, propping himself up on his elbows to look toward the hall. Lance stands beyond his cell, wings pulled back, feathers puffed up. He’s leaning away from their captors, fighting their hold for the first time. He tries to yank himself out of their grip, but his wrists are bound behind his back. His eyes are wide, fearful and shocked, mouth hanging open, twisted in pain. 

” _Keith_...” He whispers his name, broken and pained, eyes moving from Keith’s back to his face. 

For the second time, fear runs through Keith’s veins, cooling the fire and leaving him chillingly cold. _No_. His eyes flicker to Lance’s wings. Dirty and dingy but still beautiful and blue. _No, no, no._

“Don’t touch him,” He hisses between clenched teeth, pushing himself to his knees, turning to face his cell’s bars. “Don’t you dare touch him!” He shouts, spit and fire in his voice as he tries to get to his feet. But his balance is thrown off. His left side feels so much heavier. 

The galra are already tugging Lance down the hall, ignoring his struggles and easily overpowering him. Lance tries to twist in their grip, tries to keep his eyes trained on Keith. For the first time since he’s known him, he sees fear twist his features. It makes his gut lurch. 

“Leave him alone!” He shouts, but his protests fall on deaf ears. He throws himself to the bars of his cell, body sagging against them, limbs shaking, back screaming in pain. 

The heavy door closes, leaving Keith with nothing but his own ragged breaths as company. His knees give out, body slumping to the floor. He closes his eyes, resting his forehead against the bars. His knuckles are white as he squeezes them. 

“Don’t...” He says, lips barely moving, voice barely heard. 

  


* * *

Keith has never been one to sing, nor has he been a very touchy person.

He’s only ever really sang when his voice could be easily masked within the chorus of his tribe, and he’s only ever been able to stand touching people that he’s close to. 

But as Lance is thrown into his cell, body broken, bruised, and bloody, crumpling to the hard stone, he finds that neither of those things matter anymore. 

He’s surprised when they toss Lance into his own cell, and as much as he’s itching to crawl to the other vastaya, he stays still, glare trained on the robed figures that move into the cell. They chain the two of them together, wrist to wrist, and Keith scoots forward so Lance doesn’t have to move for them to be close enough to be chained. 

As the others filter out of the cell, the leader of them remains. Keith doesn’t know who they are or what they look like beneath the dark robes, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever forget their voice. If he hears it once he’s on the outside, he won’t hesitate to kill them. Plain and simple. 

They tell him that their wings will fetch a good price among traders. That Lhotlan wings are hard to come by these days. They tell him that they’ve run out of usefulness. That come tomorrow, they’ll be moved to a different facility. An arena. Where they’ll fight for their own survival daily among other prisoners. 

And then they leave, and a thick silence settles in his cell, broken only by Lance’s ragged and raspy breaths. 

Once he’s sure they’re gone, Keith is moving. He shifts Lance closer to the back wall, wincing and gritting his teeth as the other lets out whimpers of pain. He settles back against the wall, left side pressed to the stone. Lance sprawls out on his stomach, back facing the open air. 

Keith has felt the horror of losing a wing, but seeing it is entirely different. Lance’s left wing is gone. In its place is a short, bloody stump, clothes and exposed back stained dark. It’s no longer actively bleeding, and for that, Keith is thankful. HIs remaining wing is limb down his back, falling off to the floor. Beautiful blue feathers stained and crusting with red. 

It hurts to look at. Makes Keith’s heart squeeze. Makes his stomach roll, bile threatening to rise up his throat. 

This isn’t entirely his fault, and he knows it. Lance is the one who had been following him. Lance got himself into this situation. But Keith can’t help but feel the guilt, heavy and leaden in his gut. 

As obnoxious as Lance is, as much as an idiot he seems as he parades himself around, as much as he puts himself on display for human entertainment. As much as he’s cocky and over confident and showy, Lance is beautiful. It’s a matter of fact. He’s beautiful and he’s talented. He knows it, too, tries to shove it in everyone’s face, which is what grates against Keith’s nerves, but that doesn’t take away from the fact that he _is_. 

And now he’s lost one of his beautiful wings. 

Keith maneuvers Lance’s head onto his lap, holding their chained wrists at a comfortable angle while his free hand tentatively brushes the hair away from Lance’s sweaty brow. 

Lance’s eyes flicker open, and he tilts his head back a fraction to look up at him. His eyes are dark, glazed, and dazed. There’s strain along the angles of his face, but that doesn’t stop him from forcing a small smile. “Hey.” His voice is rough and hoarse, pained and strained. 

Keith forces a small, wry smile. “Hey,” His voice cracks, but neither of them acknowledge it. His fingers lightly trail along Lance’s cheeks, his jaw, his forehead, his temple. 

The lighting of the cell is dim, but up close, Keith can see how many bruises he has. He’s a little surprised. Lance never fought them when they came to take him out of his cell, yet he bares all the marks of someone who struggled tooth and nail. 

“Admiring my beauty?” Lance hums, traces of amusement in his voice. Keith doesn’t know how he manages it. 

He snorts softly, pad of his thumb gently brushing over a dark bruise beneath one swollen eye. “You have a lot of bruises.”

He tries to shrug, no doubt out of habit, but the movement jostles his shoulders, his back, and he winces, hissing in pain as he forces his body to once again relax. It takes him a moment longer before he responds, He’s still trying to keep his voice light, despite the increased strain and crack of his words. “I asked them to avoid the face, but they don’t seem to care much for beauty.” He tilts his head a fraction more, flashing Keith a grin that’s far too bright for the grim atmosphere of the cell. “They have no appreciation for my sass.”

Despite it all, Keith finds himself smiling. “So you weren’t a perfectly well behaved prisoner.”

Lance scoffs, rolling his eyes before settling his face back to Keith’s lap, nuzzling in until he’s somewhat comfortable. “Me? Behave? I don’t know the meaning of the word.”

They drop into silence, long enough that Lance’s breathing evens out somewhat and Keith thinks he might have fallen into sleep. His fingers card through Lance’s hair, nails scratching at his scalp, trailing as far down his neck as he dares. His eyes remain on the spot where his wing should be. 

“I’m sorry...” He says to the darkness, barely above a whisper. He doesn’t think Lance will hear. Doesn’t think he’s awake. He’s surprised to hear a mumbled response. 

“It’s not your fault.”

Keith purses his lips, brows furrowing. His own back aches, a pulsing heat that reminds him of his own mutilation. “If it weren’t for me—“

“Keith,” Lance’s voice is surprisingly hard. Stern. It catches Keith’s attention, and he looks down to see a pair of fierce blue eyes gazing up at him, dark in the shadows and narrowed just so. “I don’t blame you. You didn’t do this.”   


Keith frowns. He doesn’t have the energy to argue with Lance, and he doesn’t think Lance has the energy to argue back, but he knows the man will if he pushes. So instead he says, “I’m going to get you out of here.”   


Lance’s eyes spark in the dim lighting, head tilting as his lips lift into a smirk. “Not if I get _you_ out of here first.”   


Keith offers him a small, amused smile, and Lance lowers his head once again, eyes drifting closed, body heaving as he exhales a shuddering sigh.    


Lance seems to relax when Keith runs his fingers through his hair, so he doesn’t stop. And when he’s certain that Lance is close to unconsciousness again, he starts to sing. Soft and ragged, throat dry and raw from his own screams. It’s not beautiful. It’s not remotely pleasant. But as he sings softly, voice shaping words in the old tongue of the Marmora tribe, Lance sighs softly, contently, and that’s all the encouragement that Keith needs. 

  


* * *

✦ ✧ _We are seen dancing and thought insane - by those who can't hear the music_  ✧ ✦

  


* * *

 

  


They get their opportunity the next day when the guards come to get them.

There are fewer guards this time, no doubt under the impression that they would be weak and subdued after the shock of losing a wing. They _are_ weak, but they are _not_ subdued. And it’s the fire of their rage that gives them strength, that steels their cores, makes the magic inside them flare through their veins, giving them _life_.

They had whispered their plans in the shadows of the night, between moments of unconsciousness. Their plan was simple: escape. They don’t have much design beyond the initial escape of their cell, but Keith is used to improvising, and Lance assures him he can keep up.

They both try to rest as much as they can as they wait, conserving their energy and building their strength. But sleep is shallow and neither of them can truly rest with adrenaline in their veins and fire in their hearts.

The shackles around their wrists are built to suppress their magic, keeping them from accessing it, but despite what the galra may think, that doesn’t make them helpless.

When the time comes, they’re ready. Their bodies heal faster than humans might, but with the thick corruption of shadow magic around them, muddling and suppressing their natural core, it stunts their healing process. But they’re standing. Battered and bruised. Blood and sweat dried and crusted on their feathers and skin. They still stand.

They stand, and they’re ready to fight.

They wait, against the back wall, feigning defeat as the guard yank them to their feet. Then they strike. They knock their feet out from under them. Lance wraps their connecting chains around one of the guard’s necks, using his free arm and body weight to hold down flailing limbs. Meanwhile Keith wrestles with the other on the ground as best he can. He finally manages to get his legs wrapped around the galra’s neck, ignoring the nails that scrape and claw at his thighs as he squeezes.

After the body goes limp, he waits a moment longer before releasing him. When he looks to Lance to see how he’s fairing, he’s crouched over the other unconscious guard, watching Keith with a strange mix of wonder, appreciation, and something darker.

It makes Keith’s rapid heartbeat flutter, and he ignores the feeling as he pushes himself to his feet, leading Lance to the open door of their cell.

They heave the door open slowly, pausing to peek out into the hallway beyond. It splits to either side, and for the moment, it’s empty. Keith nods to himself. “Let’s go.”

Keith darts to the left, and Lance turns to the right. They’re both jerked backwards as the shackles between their wrists are pulled tight. Keith’s eyes widen in surprise, and Lance let’s out a small yelp. He stumbles back a couple steps, turning to glare at Lance.

Lance lifts their joined wrists, lips pursed as his gaze narrows on the chains. Then his gaze flickers to Keith’s overtop them, and he quirks a small, wry smile. “Guess that’s not gonna work.”

Keith huffs, glaring at the chains. It’s not like he _forgot_ about them, but he certainly hadn’t thought this through.

Great.

Before they can argue over which way to go, Keith’s ears twitch, hearing the soft pad of footsteps down the hall behind him. He whips his head around. He can’t see them yet, but he knows they’re coming. They don’t, however, sound to be in a rush. So for the moment, they have an advantage.

“Let’s go your way.” He says, turning back around to hurry past Lance.

His eyes are locked down the hall where Keith had been staring, lips pursed into a small frown. “Right, sounds good.” He says, stumbling after Keith when the shackles between them pull taut.

The dungeons are built like a maze. Hallways upon hallways. Turns and twists. All dark and lantern lit. The air is stale and stagnant, giving Keith the distinct impression that they’re underground. They keep their ears perked and alert, listening for any sound of footsteps or voices that aren’t their own. 

Walking is a strange thing without one of his wings. He’s always had two. They’ve always been apart of him. He learned to walk with them. He hadn’t realized just how much his balance would suffer without one. He felt off. Felt _wrong_. Everything felt off center, and all the movements he’s grown accustomed to doing automatically need to be adjusted. 

It’s a strange feeling, one that means more for his future, but one he can’t dwell on right now.

Every time they come across a patrol, Lance tugs him down another hallway, despite Keith’s itch to just _keep going_. It’s only a matter of time before they’re discovered missing, and the quickest way out is a straight shot, but Lance has them twisting and redirecting to avoid guards.

There’s not much Keith can do to protest. Arguing takes even more time, and Lance is surprisingly strong.

Then the alarm sounds. Loud and piercing, a ripple of shadow magic rolling through the air. They both freeze, bodies stiffening and ears laying flat to escape the sound. They exchange looks before picking up the pace, moving from a quick but careful walk to a run.

Ahead they hear footsteps coming toward them, fast and urgent. Keith steels himself, gritting his teeth as he picks up his pace. He’s ready to run straight into them, to kick and claw and knock them down before he keeps running.

But Lance tugs him into an alcove, a nook off to the side of the main hall, shrouded in shadows and out of the main reach of the lantern light. They stand close to the stone walls, wings folded as close as they might. Keith holds his breath as the footsteps near, body going still as he tries to slow his heartbeat.

His knees bend, shoulders hunching, preparing to strike. When the steps are right in front of them, his body tenses, leaping forward—

Lance jerks him back, using their joined hands to wrap awkwardly around Keith’s lower back, holding him to Lance’s chest. His free hand lands heavily over Keith’s mouth before he can voice a protest. His eyes go wide before glaring at the other vastaya, but Lance’s eyes are on the hall, watching with tight lips and hard eyes as the guards run past them.

Once they’re gone, footsteps fading, Keith pushes away from him, ripping the hand from over his mouth. “What are you doing?” He hisses, furious.

Lance’s eyes narrow, gaze still hard and unyielding. “ _Me?_ What are _you_ doing?”

“I’m trying to _get us out of here_.”

“You’re trying to _fight_."   


“Of course I am! Why aren’t _you_?”

They’re close, and Keith doesn’t remember getting this close. He can feel Lance’s panting breath hot against his cheeks. Their noses brush just slightly. Lance’s blue eyes are a storm that take up the entirety of his vision. “ _We’re unarmed_ ,” Lance hisses, frustration and exasperation clear in his tone. “We need to get out of here _alive_ , and that means picking our battles!” Keith scowls, opening his mouth to protest, surprised into silence when Lance’s finger is suddenly pressed against his lips. The other vastaya leans back, face forced to relax as he smiles. “Look, I dig your fighting spirit, I really do. But neither of us are strong enough to fight our way out of here. We need to play this carefully.”

Keith glares at him, smacking Lance’s hand away. He turns away with a huff. “ _Fine_ ,” He says, ignoring the weird feeling in his chest and Lance’s smile as he leads the way back down the hall.

They dodge a few more patrols, and Keith feels like they’re going in circles before they finally find the stairs that lead up into the main compound. It’s then that Keith realizes that this isn’t solely a prison. It’s an entire galra hideout. And it’s high in activity with the news of their escape.

The stairs are guarded by two soldiers, and they managed to sneak up behind them, knocking them out much like they had the guards in their cells. With a grunt of effort, they manage to drag the unconscious bodies to the side before climbing the steps.

They barely make it out into the main compound before Keith stops in his tracks, eyes locked onto a room with the door cracked. From what he can see inside, the room is a mess, but he’s been in galra compounds before. He knows the layout. He knows they always have a room where they keep confiscated prisoner possessions.

His knife.

His belt feels far too light without it.

“Keith?” Lance calls, having been tugged to a stop, but Keith isn’t looking at him. “Keith! Come on, we gotta go.” He says with a tug at their shackles.

Keith knows he’s right. Time is limited. They need to escape. But... “My knife.” He says, eyes tearing away from the door to lock with Lance’s, wide and confused.

“What?”

“My knife,” Keith repeats, eyes flickering to the room once again. “It’s probably in there.”

“I thought you used your feathers,” Lance says, confusion coloring his tone.

“I do, but— All members of the Blade have a knife— my knife is probably in there—“

“Keith, we don’t have _time_!”

He knows. He knows. He _knows_. But... He turns back to Lance, eyes wide and pleading. He hears it in the way his voice cracks. “Lance, _please_. It’s all I have.” He hates how broken he sounds, how pathetic and _weak_.

But Lance’s face softens. He heaves a heavy sigh, eyes darting around the hall, running fingers through his hair, making it stand up with sweat and dirt. “Alright, yeah,” He says, turning to Keith with a smile that’s small but vibrant in the dreary halls of the galra compound. “Let’s hurry.”

They dart into the room, which is thankfully empty. Unfortunately, it’s a mess. Prisoner possessions have been tossed around, none of them organized in any shape or form. Obviously having been riffled through without any sense of care. He digs through everything thoroughly, hands grabbing everything, eyes darting everywhere for any glimpse or gleam of the familiar metal. The familiar gemstone.

Lance stays by his side, giving their joined hands as much movement as possible, but his eyes remain on the door, posture stiff and nervous.

“Keith...” He mumbles, wary and low.

Keith’s ears twitch, twisting to listen. He can hear footsteps approaching, slow and cautious. Questioning voices.

“Did you leave that door open?” Comes one voice.

“Not that much.” Says the other.

“Keeeeith...” Lance whines, tugging gently at their joined wrists.

Keith doesn’t look up. He needs his knife. He _needs_ it. It’s all he has left to connect him to the Marmora. His people. His _home_. It’s who he _is_. He can’t leave it here. He _won’t_.

“Hey—!” One of the guard shouts, but the sound is choked off into a pained gurgle. And Keith whips around to see Lance driving his elbow into the man’s throat before grabbing him and locking his free arm around his neck.

The guard pushes backwards, ramming Lance’s back into the wall, and Lance’s face twists in pain as his wing stump hits the stone, hissing breath escaping through clenched teeth, but he holds on tight. The movement jerks Keith off the floor by their joined wrists. The guard’s hands are clawing at Lance’s arm, but he refuses to give. Keith’s eyes flicker to the doorway as the second guard comes into view.

“Keith!”

He turns, and Lance’s eyes are locked in the direction of the doorway, staring pointedly down the guard’s body. Keith follows his gaze to— there, on his belt, is Keith’s knife. Handle of it poking up through the leather strap.

“Is that—?” Lance asks, sounding winded and strained.

“Yeah,” Keith replies, eyes locked and narrowed on the new guard.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Lance’s smile. “Well, what’re you waiting for?”

Lance locked his grip around the guard’s neck, lifting their joined hands to hold the man’s shoulder in place. In one swift motion, summoning more strength and dexterity than Keith would have given him credit for, Lance snaps the man’s neck. It’s quick, decisive, and fluid. With a push, he drops the body to the floor, taking a moment to straighten his clothes and roll his shoulders as he peels himself off the wall.

He glances at Keith, who’s watching him, impressed. But Lance only smiles, small and slight, a dark glint in his eyes mingling with his amusement. “I’m not helpless.” He says.

Keith finds himself smiling. “I never said you were.”

“You were thinking it.”

Keith shrugs, but before he can reply, the other guard is shouting. He reaches for his belt, ripping out Keith’s knife, pulling his arm back, hurling it towards him.

He snaps into motion out of reflex, twisting his body to dodge the knife as it tumbles blade over handle at him. It skims past his face, over his shoulder, and he moves with it, snatching it out of the air with practiced ease. This is _his_ knife. If the guard thinks he can hurt him with it, he has another thing coming.

Keith continues his twist, momentum carrying his body in a tight circle. Lance, surprisingly, moves with him, spinning around him on light feet, wing and feathers flaring out behind him in a way that is entirely unnecessary and entirely for show. Leave it to Lance to make a performance out of a fight. He moves around Keith as if it were a dance, helping carry his momentum around.

And as they complete the spin, the flurry of feathers and wings, Keith extends his arm, letting go, and watching as the knife shoots out, blade embedding in the guard’s chest.

Lance lets out a low whistle as the man falls, then turns to look at Keith with raised brows. “Impressive.”

Keith smirks, already pulling him across the room to retrieve his knife. “Let’s get out of here.”

“Gladly.”

They rush through the halls, avoiding guards where they can, taking them out when they can’t. Tainted magic is thick as the guards search for them, but from what Keith can tell, this compound has a fair number of galra who can’t use shadow magic. They thrive in it, but they’re either soldiers or acolytes. It makes it harder for them to track the two vastaya, and Keith is grateful.

They find a door, and they can _smell_ the fresh air leaking through the cracks. It’s not the main door, but it’s still guarded. Two of them. Build strong. Padded leather armor. Swords at their hips. Keith is willing to bet all exits are guarded at this point. And two guards are a lot easier to get past than more.

He starts for them, but Lance tugs him back, pressing a finger to his own lips to signal silence. While they hide around the corner from sight, he goes through a series of complication hand motions, grinning at Keith expectantly when he finishes.

Keith just stares, one brow raising in his confusion.

Lance sighs, shoulders slumping. “Never mind.” He mumbles, a soft huff as he inches toward the corner. “Just... follow my lead.”

He steps around the corner then, casual and calm, like he’s walking into a tavern and not into view of two armed galra soldiers. “Hey, fellas!” He says, voice loud enough to carry, light and lilting. Once he’s in sight, he leans against the corner of the wall, wing flaring out a little to hide Keith from sight. His shackled arm is behind him, allowing Keith to remain just around the corner. From the guards’ view, Lance is alone.

“Halt!” One of them calls.

“Hey, now! No need to shout. I’m already halted. See?” Keith’s ears twitch as he hears them approach. He crouches low behind Lance, knife held loosely in his grip.

“Hands in the air.” One of them snaps.

“Where’s the other one?” Demands the other.

“You guys are so stiff! How about you relax a little. What about a joke? Okay, okay. How do you catch a unique bird?” There’s a pause, and Keith can only imagine the baffled scowls on the soldiers’ faces. “ _Unique_ up on it!” A soft chuckle, Lance’s shoulders shaking slightly. “Get it? Like _you sneak up_ on it?” There’s the sound of weapons being drawn. “Hey! Whoa! Okay, okay, calm down. I’m not gonna kill ya.” He pauses, and Keith can hear the smug grin in his voice. It makes his own lips curl into a small smirk. There’s a tug on their shackled wrists, cluing Keith in that it’s time. “ _He_ is.”

Lance’s hand grabs Keith’s wrist, giving them more leverage as he swings his arm around, lending Keith momentum as he swings around the corner. His knife finds the first guard’s neck. Then Lance is spinning him again, and he lets the momentum carry him, letting his body roll with it, wing flaring out with the movement. His knife rips from the guard’s throat, and he tosses it in the air, catching it in a different grip, slamming it into the next guard between his armor plates, twisting.

Then Lance is pulling him again, and they’re running, shoving through the heavy doors, and stumbling out into the fresh air.

 

* * *

✦ ✧ _I look around these forests and I see freedom. I hear the music_  ✧ ✦

  


* * *

The sun sets as they make their mad dash through the forest.   


The air is still dampened by lingering shadow magic, but the natural magic of the land is clearer than it had been inside the prison. Keith feels like he can finally _breathe_ , despite the burn in his lungs and the ache in his legs. The cold metal over his wrist still keeps him from being able to access his magic, but he can feel it inside him, boiling and writhing and damn near bursting from the seams. 

It’s a fire in him that keeps him going. 

The galra are hot on their trail. They can feel the waves of shadow magic that linger around them, from their druids’ searching fingers. They can hear the feet of the soldiers trampling through the forest behind them, not gaining any closer but also not falling behind. 

He and Lance may have an advantage by being vastaya, having more natural stamina than humans, but the galra are something in between. Humans corrupted by the allure of tainted magic, infusing their bodies and making them an unnatural hybrid between human and vastaya. And he and Lance are still injured, still weak. They can only keep going as long as their adrenaline lasts. 

Running is far more difficult than he anticipated. Lance can keep up, but Keith is just a little faster, a little lighter on his feet. He’s quick to jump over obstacles and turn in directions that his gut deems the best path. Lance let’s him lead now, following him through the woods without protest. Running with their wrists shackled close makes for awkward posturing. Even more so when they’re both thrown off balance from missing a wing. 

More than once Keith finds himself stumbling after throwing out his wings for balance, only to find his center of gravity is completely thrown off with only one. He stumbles, and Lance catches him, pushes him back up, hand on his lower back to keep him moving. Lance stumbles several times himself, and Keith bites back a frustrated groan, tugging on his arm, pulling him back to his feet. 

They need a plan. They need a way to escape. They can’t keep running forever, and he can already feel their stamina and strength waning. His body aches, burns, protests. They need something, _anything_ to give them a chance to get away.

Lance must be thinking the same thing because he’s suddenly tugging on Keith’s arm, pulling him off in another direction. Keith is startled. Lance has been following him up until this point, so the sudden change is unexpected. But he has no better ideas, so he stumbles after him. 

Then the sound of running water reaches his ears. They twitch atop his head, perking forward, twitching irritably. But Lance doesn’t stop running, and when he notices Keith started to slow down, he doesn’t hesitate to pull him bodily forward, refusing to let their momentum slow.

When they reach a river, wide and current quick, Lance turns, leading them along the riverbank on light, quick steps, heading downstream. Keith eyes it warily, panting against his burning lungs and the tight squeeze of fear in his chest. 

Lance stops suddenly when they reach a cliff, standing next to where the river falls over it into a wider river below. Keith skids to a stop, eyes wide and heart hammering in his throat. He leans back as Lance leans forward, pulling their joined arms taut as he peers over the edge of the cliff. 

When he turns back to Keith, he’s _grinning_. 

“No,” Keith says, already shaking his head. “No. No way. We’re not doing that.”

Lance’s grin falls, shoulders hunching as he frowns. “Come on! It looks deep enough.”

Keith shakes his head a little more vigorously, taking a step backwards. His skin feels cold and clammy where the fresh air cools his sweat. The dried blood on his back itches terribly. “There has to be another way.”

He turns, moving to take another step back the way they’ve come, but Lance tugs him forward with enough force that has Keith stumbling. Lance catches him, one hand on his wrist, one on his upper arm to steady him. Keith’s free hand ends up on Lance’s chest to catch himself. He glares up at the other vastaya and is surprised to find Lance is already glaring back at him. 

“Keith, there is no other way. _This_ is the best chance we have.” His voice is hard. Steady. _Sure_. It leaves no room for Keith to argue because Keith _knows_ he’s right. But...

His eyes stray to the river beside them, eyeing the spot where the water tumbles over the cliff, the sound of it roaring loud in his ears. Thundering. Deafening. _Terrifying_. “I— I _can’t_ —“ He says, voice cracking. He snaps his mouth shut, biting his cheek. His eyes flicker back to Lance’s, wide and pleading. He tries to take a step backwards, but Lance doesn’t let him, grip tightening.

“Do you trust me?” Lance asks, voice soft and low. Keith is surprised he’s even able to hear it over the roar of the falls. 

Keith stops struggling and stares at him, mouth agape. “I don’t even _know_ you!” He snaps. 

Lance doesn’t even flinch. The corner of his lips quirk just a little, just enough to soften the edges of his hard gaze. “Do you trust me?” He repeats. So soft. So sure. Keith can feel Lance’s heart hammering beneath his hand. 

There’s shouts somewhere behind him, and Keith’s ears swivel towards it, but his eyes remain on Lance. The galra are catching up. He and Lance are outnumbered. There’s no way they can fight and win. This is their best chance, and he _knows_ that.

His eyes flicker to the water before returning to Lance’s. Keith feels captivated by the depths of his gaze, holding his so firmly. There’s something... calming about him. Something that eases the frazzled edges of Keith’s fraying nerves. Something that makes breathing a little easier. Something solid and firm and anchoring. 

Keith can’t say for sure if he trusts Lance. He barely knows Lance. 

But he _wants_ to trust Lance.

So he clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, and nods. Lance’s answering grin is blinding in the setting sun. The bruises and cuts, dried sweat and blood, do nothing to detract from his beauty. They help give him a dangerous edge. One that has a thrill shooting down Keith’s spine. 

Lance’s free arm wraps around his lower back, pulling him in close, until they’re pressed chest to chest. He holds Keith’s hand between them, shackles pressing uncomfortably into their flesh. “Just hold onto me.” He says, voice a low whisper in Keith’s ear, breath tickling his fur, brushing against his hair. 

Then they jump, and the thundering of the waterfall drowns out the sound of their pursuers shouting. 

Keith’s stomach drops with the feeling of free fall. His body tenses, curling himself automatically into Lance, into his warmth, into his sturdy and comforting hold. Their wings automatically flare out, attempting to slow their descent. It does little to help, however. Keith can feel how stiff his feathers are, and the yank of wind against his good wing jostles his back, tugging on his broken stump and sending pain through his torso. 

The wind catches his wing and Lance’s, causing them to be thrown off kilter, making them spin. Keith squeezes his eyes shut and holds his breath, bracing himself for impact.

It’s not the fall he fears, but the water below. 

Luckily, the water is deep enough to catch them. But as soon as the icy depths wrap around him, engulf him, Keith’s entire body freezes. He tenses up, unable to move, irrational fear and panic making his chest squeeze. His lungs burn. 

Then Lance is tugging his body, hauling him through the water. Keith can’t bring himself to help or struggle, hanging limp as Lance pulls him through the water. 

He doesn’t know how long they swim for, how long he’s forced to hold his breath, but it feels like an eternity before his head is breaking the surface. He drags air greedily into his lungs, limbs finally able to move, desperately keeping his head above water. Then Lance is tugging him again, pulling him through the water, cutting through it himself like he was made for it. 

Keith briefly and distantly is awed by this fact. By how naturally Lance moves in the water, easy and fluid, moving _with_ it rather than against it. Keith can feel the drag of his wing behind him, the pull of water lodged feathers, but Lance doesn’t even look like he struggles with his. 

When they reach the riverbank, a ways down from the waterfall, Lance drags him ashore. He pulls him bodily from the water, stumbling a ways before they both collapse. Lance leans against a thick tree trunk, and Keith falls against him. He leans against him, both hands clenched against his bare chest, body curled up in Lance’s open lap, head fallen to rest on his shoulder. His wing is tucked up close to his back, and he greedily tries to absorb Lance’s warmth, feeling his own body shivering violently, uncontrollably. 

The tree they find shelter next to is giant, roots splaying out far and wide, and they nestle between them, surrounded by them, hidden in a pocket with the river to their backs. 

For a moment, they both simply lay there, huddled together, and _breathe_. Eventually, Lance’s heaving chest evens out, the heartbeat beneath Keith’s fingers calming to something more manageable. “See?” He hears Lance say, still sounding breathless but with an edge of amusement. “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?”

Keith lifts his head to glare at him, ears pressed flat to his head, hair a dripping mess, plastering to his skin. He’s still shivering, even if it’s not as obvious as it had been moments ago. He knows, however, that he’s pressed close enough to Lance for him to feel it. He scowls, but feels like the heat behind it falls flat, especially when faced with Lance’s widening grin. 

He chuckles, and Keith can feel it rumbling beneath him, low and pleasant. “You look like a drowned cat.” He says, but while it’s teasing, his voice is also so incredibly soft, almost... _fond_. It makes Keith’s retort die on his tongue. 

He stiffens when Lance lifts a hand to run his fingers through his damp hair, pushing it back away from his face, soothing his palms over Keith’s ears, fingers soft and gentle as he scratches at the base of his ears. 

Against his will, he relaxes, eyes closing and head dropping back to Lance’s shoulder. He doesn’t have the energy in him to protest in this moment, and it feels much nicer than he’s willing to admit. 

The moment is shattered when they hear shouts again, footsteps pounding through the forest. They both stiffen, Lance’s hand in his hair stilling. As the voices get closer, Lance’s hand slides down his back, wrapping his free arm around Keith’s waist, twisting their bodies slightly, poising himself just a little above him. His wing falls over them both. It doesn’t offer any protection, nor does it offer camouflage. 

But the intent behind it is there, and it makes Keith’s stomach flip. 

They wait, both of them barely daring to breathe while they listen, ears twitching at every sound. The shouts come closer, voices rising and footsteps so close that for a moment, Keith thinks they’ll be found. His fingers close around the hilt of his knife, and he waits. 

But then the footsteps pass, moving right past the other side of the tree that hides them, leaping over the other end of the root system. They don’t relax until all sounds of pursuit fade and the forest comes back alive around them. 

They exchange glances, grim expressions and somber faces. They help each other to their feet and set off down river. Neither of them speak, silently listening for any sign of the galra nearby. 

Keith tries not to dwell on the echoing memory of being pressed against Lance’s chest, slender fingers carding through his hair. 

* * *

✦ ✧ _I am Vastaya. I am born of magic. This is my destiny_ ✧ ✦

  


* * *

 

 

They walk through the night, exhaustion hanging on their shoulders but neither of them willing to stop. They find a village near dawn, and sneak through the streets until they find the blacksmith’s.

The fires are already lit, the local blacksmith already taking stock for the day as his apprentices tend to the furnaces and sweep the floors. They all stare, open mouthed and wide eyed, as the two vastaya stumble in. They’re dirty, single wings a mess, clothes barely wearable, looking tired and beaten. 

Still, Lance manages to smile. He smiles and holds himself light on his feet, despite the heavy droop to his wing. Chin held high and laughter on his tongue, he talks to the blacksmith like they’ve been friends for years. Keith watches, an equal mix between awed and baffled. He can’t bring himself to do more than stare flatly, a vague scowl on his face as he glares at the apprentices staring. 

Lance manages to convince the blacksmith to help them, despite the fact that they have no money or goods to trade. While the man riffles through his tools, Lance weaves an exciting tale of them getting captured by the ruthless galra clan, of their torture, of their daring escape. It’s embellished, fanciful, and by the time he’s done, it barely resembles what actually happened. 

But it also is specifically tailored to induce awe and gain sympathy. And it works like a charm. Keith remains silent as Lance paints them as brave, vastaya heroes, nearly downed by the terrorizing galra clan but able to persevere. Even the blacksmith looks impressed as the cuts the shackles from their wrists. 

As soon as they’re freed, Keith steps back, rubbing his raw and bruised wrist with his left hand. 

He watches for a moment longer as Lance chats with the blacksmith, easy smile on his face as he sips from an offered waterskin. He takes a step back into the shadows, and then another. Then he turns and slips outside.

The world is cast in shades of gray, the odd veil between night and day, where the air is damp with dew and thick with mystery, where time seems to stand still. 

He breathes in deep, closing his eyes briefly to settle himself. 

He considers saying goodbye to Lance, but decides against it. Lance is back in his element. This is what he _does_. Keith still has a job to to. A purpose. He needs to keep moving forward. He doesn’t have time for distractions. He doesn’t have time for pretty boys with pretty feathers and smiles that make his heart race. 

Lance is much better off without him. He only brings pain to those close to him. It’s better if he doesn’t say goodbye. It’s better if he just leaves. It’s better if he just disappears, fading back into myth and gossip and rumor. He’s already caused Lance enough pain.

Besides, he needs to find Shiro. 

He opens his eyes, clenches his fists, and starts off down the dirt packed street, back the way they had come. 

“Not even going to say goodbye?” Comes the voice behind him, halting him in his tracks. 

Keith turns, glaring at Lance over his shoulder. Despite his tone, light and teasing, despite his little smirk, Keith can see the shadow of hurt in his eyes. He steels himself against it. Hardens himself. Ignores the twist in his gut. “Stop following me.”

Lance shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest, leaning his weight to one side. His wing droops low behind him. “Sorry, Keith. We bonded. You can’t get rid of me that easily.”

“Just... go back to your life, Lance.” Keith bites out, turning on his heel and walking away. 

When he speaks, it’s soft and weary, exhausted but determined. There’s no doubt in his voice, only tired certainty. “I’m going to find you again, Keith.” 

Keith really hopes that he doesn’t. 

He hopes that he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my social media to learn more about me, my writing, and this au!
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THIS FIC ANYWHERE ELSE.** This means you, Wattpad users.
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THE ART FROM THIS FIC.** This includes platforms such as instagram and pinterest.  
> Reblog it from the artist: [tumblr](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/180966263004/wild-magic-chapter-1-here-it-is-the-first) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters/status/1071902978372714503)  
>    
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)  
>  **Artist's Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wolfpainters.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters)  
> 


	2. Part II: Rising

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Through trust and camaraderie, together we shall rise.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, and happy reading <33

_✦ ✧ The only way to understand magic is to plunge into it, move with it, dance and dance ✧ ✦_

 

* * *

 

He doesn’t often look for fights, but fights find him often enough.

He restrains himself with humans. They’re often merely products of their own ignorance. Acting on fear and superstition. He’s not above teaching them lessons in respect they won’t soon forget, but he’s not heartless, and he’s not relentless.

The humans multiply like mice, pushing deeper into Ionia’s sacred forests in an every expanding surge. Their presence puts strain on the magic of his homeland, but he knows they don’t mean to. They don’t realize they’re doing it. They’re deaf to the music.

His fight with them, however, is a fight for another day. The humans are a slow moving tide, a problem for the future. The galra are a problem for the present. Their active corruption of ley lines and temples are a far more dire threat to wild magic, his homeland, and his people.

And as such, the galra gave up their claim to mercy long ago.

Energy crackles at his fingertips, hot and bright. Magic flows through his veins, keeping the feathers clutched between his fingers hard and sharp as steel.

He throws them with pinpoint accuracy, imbedding them deep in his opponents while ducking away from their attacks. Then his palms glow, blood burning hot as the light emanates, red and pink, calling his feathers back to him. He snatches them easily out of the air, edges dripping with a blood that’s sickly and dark.

He’s outnumbered this time. he can feel it in the strain of his body and the harsh pull of his lungs. But he’s fought against worse odds and came out mostly unscathed. Bruises and cuts heal. He’d endure the pain of them to get the information he needs.

Still, he needs to be quick to stay ahead of the galra surrounding him. None of them are druids. All of them typical foot soldiers, armed with nothing but weapons and the enhanced strength and speed that their corrupted bodies give them. He can take them out easily, but he knows he needs to be swift and careful about it. They have the numbers to take him down should be let himself be caught.

Keith turns, right arm thrown out as three feather daggers leave his fingertips. Two imbed themselves in the throat of an advancing galra, the third skimming along the outside of his neck, cutting deep as it passes. The man stumbles, daggers falling from his hands as he reaches for his throat, blood gurgling from his lips. Above his face mask, his eyes are wide before they go dull.

Movement out of the corner of his eye. A woman charging him, a large two handed axe in her hands. She swings wide, blow gaining momentum. Keith throws himself backwards, moving out of the swing of her axe and feeling the air from her swing against his cheek. He lets his momentum carry him to the ground, and he rolls backwards, thrusting out his left arm as he comes back to a crouch. His feathers dig deep into the chest of a nearby galra, stopping his charge.

He leaps backwards as the woman’s axe comes down, imbedding into the ground where he had once been. He dances back on his toes, steps light and balance held ready as his palms glow. He can feel the heat in his hands, the crackle and surge of energy. His feather daggers glow from where they’re pushed into the bodies of the fallen galra, blood dripping from around their edges.

They twitch. Once. Twice. Keith spins out of the swing of a sword, moving to put the woman with an axe between himself and her fallen companions. A surge of magic, the clench of his fists, and the feather daggers rip from the bodies, shooting through the air towards him with streaks of deep pink and bright red light.

They move quick. The blink of an eye. Recalling to him far faster than he had thrown them. Blades hot as molten steel and far, far sharper. Nearly beams of cutting energy, relentless in their course to return.

They rip through the woman’s torso like a hot knife through butter, causing her to stumble. Eyes widen. Dark spots appear on her clothes, seeping and soaking. Her axe falls to the ground, and she’s only a moment behind.

Keith snatches the feathers out of the air with practiced ease. They come to him willingly. They’re apart of him. They cannot and would not harm him. They’re warm against his fingertips, but it’s a pleasant warmth. It’s the warmth of battle. The heat of the fight. The fire of magic as it sings through his veins.

An arrow lands near his feet, and he lashes out instinctively, throwing a handful of feathers at the source. He sees a couple hit, but no body falls from the branches of the tree where the others are imbedded into the trunk. Hit, but not dead.

He grits his teeth in frustration, but before he can recall his feathers, there’s an angry shout and movement behind him. He spins on his heel, pulling out his Marmora dagger as he does so, blade held parallel to his forearm. He gets it up into position in time to catch the edge of a sword as it swings at him.

He grunts, jaw clenching and arm flexing as he digs his feet into the ground in an attempt to hold the blade. The galra pushes. Had they been a human, Keith could have easily overpowered them. The galra, however, are something else entirely. He can feel his muscles straining, his own strength faltering. It’s not the best position to be in, but it was all he could do in the moment.

Now the galra has him locked. Pressing into him so he can’t pull away without consequence, yet left vulnerable to attacks from others.

An arrow whizzes past his head, close enough that he feels the movement in his hair. His heart races, blood pounding through his veins, energy crackling along his limbs. He needs to move. He needs to disengage. Back up. Recollect himself. Gather his feathers.

But the galra is pushing into him, threatening to cut him should his grip on his dagger slip. Shouts from around him. Words exchanged between the galra that he doesn’t bother listening to. Movement out of the corner of his eye as someone charges him on foot from the side the arrow had come from.

He needs to move. He needs to act. His body tenses, tightly coiled and ready to spring.

The galra in front of him grins, eyes glistening with a bloodlust that makes his blood run cold. His sword pushes harder, leaning his weight into Keith—

And then an arrow imbeds itself in his neck, fletching wobbling as the sharp force is suddenly brought to a stop.

The man’s eyes widen before unfocusing, growing dull. He coughs once, blood and spittle on his lips. The sword leaning against Keith goes slack.

Keith blinks, surprise keeping him from moving, rooting him to the spot. There’s still a fight around him. He hears the shouting. The man to his side is still charging him. There’s an archer still in the tree, wounded and aiming for him— But _this_ arrow had come from the opposite direction.

_”Keith, down!”_

The voice is as familiar as it is jarring. It makes his body flush with the heat of recognition and the flames of action. It’s a voice he knows. Far too intimately given their limited time together. And it’s a voice that demands to be obeyed. No, more than that— _trusts_ that he will obey.

He reacts to the voice instantly and without hesitation.

He shoves the man in front of him hard, letting the body waver and stumble back as he struggles with the arrow in his throat before falling. Keith immediately drops to a crouch, eyes darting toward the direction of the voice.

All he sees is a blur of blue and the rustle of feathers before there’s weight on his back. A foot. It lands on his back, oddly mindful of his wing and his stump. He feels the weight bend, lower, light for just a second before there’s a push off. Keith’s hand comes down hard on the dirt with the weight of it, head snapping up in time to see Lance leap into the air.

He gains height quickly, shooting into the air before his momentum slows and gravity starts to tug at him. His sole wing flares out as he reaches the height of his arch. Feathers an array of blue that glisten and shine in the sunlight, eye-like patterns at their tips looking far more deadly than they do when he merely dances. His tail whips out, for flare or to balance his leap, Keith isn’t sure.

There’s a bow in his hands, short and curved. As he rose, he drew the string back, arrow already notched.

He seems to pause in the air. Hovering for just a moment when he should have fallen. Resisting gravity in a way that Keith is familiar with. He can’t see the crackle of magic, but he can _feel_ it. It dances across Keith’s skin, calling out to him, coaxing his own magic to the surface. The feathers on Lance’s wing spread, catching the wind. His entire body seems to slow down. Or perhaps it’s time itself that pauses for Lance.

He draws the arrow, eyes hard as he sights down the shaft. The lines around his eyes are creased, brows furrowed, lips pursed into a thin line.

He’s beautiful. He’s ethereal. Keith feels the air rush from his lungs as something in his chest constricts.

He exhales, chest deflating as his fingers release the arrow.

And all at once, times seems to click back into place.

The arrow flies, landing in the chest of the galra archer with a dull but resolute sound, muted by the man’s shocked shout. The body falls from the tree as Lance falls to the ground.

He falls with grace and lands with ease, wing fluttering behind him as the balls of his feet touch first. His knees bend with the momentum. His bow is already being shifted in his hands. He’s landed behind the man who was charging Keith, who had also paused his charge with the sudden appearance of another vastaya.

Lance stands quickly, bow already reared back as he swings forward, cracking the man in the back of the head.

Keith watches his eyes roll as his body falls.

Lance stands over him, grinning madly, a manic glint in the depths of his eyes. One hand holds his bow while the other props up on his hip. His hair is wild. His skin is rich and bronze in the afternoon glow. His feathers fall seamlessly back into place, puffed up and on display.

He’s beautiful enough that he shouldn’t be something feared, but there’s something dangerous about his grin and something wicked in his eyes.

It makes a heat flare up in Keith’s gut, crawling up his spine to his neck. It’s not a familiar heat, nor is it a welcome one.

“Hey there, Keithy boy.” His voice is playful and light, teasing and amused. It clashes with their surroundings enough to snap Keith out of his haze.

“What’re you _doing_ here?” He snaps, rising to his feet and sheathing his dagger. He holds out a hand, palm crackling with energy, and he tugs on the magic that connects him to his feathers, pulling them out of the tree where they had been stuck.

“I came for the party.” Lance raises an eyebrow, head tilting to the side in a feign of innocence. “I told you I’d find you again.”

“I had this handled!” He’s not sure if he did, but it’s a point he won’t budge on.

Lance shrugs, off handed and dismissive. “I know.” Then his grin turns coy, eyes glinting wickedly as he winks. “But I couldn’t let you have all the fun.”

The galra have been inching closer to them, circling them. A quick glance tells him there’s four dead, one unconscious, one wounded, and six unharmed. They look far more on edge with the appearance of another vastaya, and they visibly flinch back when Lance suddenly throws his arms out, spinning around and causing his wing to flare out.

It’s different. Keith hadn’t noticed before. He had been far too distracted by Lance’s appearance. But now that he’s looking closer, there’s something about his wing that’s definitely... off. His eyes narrow, gaze tugging from the feathers themselves to Lance’s back. He’s wearing a short cape. One that covers and obscures the top of his wing, but the wing itself...

It no longer seems to jut from his shoulder blade as it should. It seems to flow down his back, starting at his right shoulder, covering the majority of his torso, feather tips curved off to the left. It’s also lacking the usual joint, making the fall of his wing and feathers fluid and graceful.

“Alright, boys!” Lance calls out, voice raised to a volume and pitch that Keith has come to associate with his performances. His arms are spread wide, chin held high as he turns slowly, eyeing the galra around them. “Eyes on the prize! And in case you were wondering...” He trails off into a chuckle, hand with his bow falling to his side while the other presses to his chest. He makes eye contact with Keith as he says, “That’s me.”

Keith’s breath catches in his throat as an energy crackles in the air. A spark of magic. Pure and uninhibited. Wild and manic. Magic that isn’t his own but crackles across his skin pleasantly all the same, teasing, playful, alluring.

Had he not been staring at Lance, he might have missed it. The way the man’s eyes began to glow, irises illuminated with an inner light. His feathers seemed brighter. Not just catching the sun, but taking it as their own and throwing it back.

And then Lance is moving, darting away and leaving Keith blinking away a haze, left with nothing but the impression of a grin.

Lance moves like water. Fluid and seamless as he ducks and dives and weaves through the galra. They charge him. Attack him. Chase after him with weapons raised like puppets on a string. Unable to resist the taunting mockery of the blue feathered peacock. All the while he _glows_. He laughs and it sounds like wind chimes against Keith’s skin. He twists out of the range of their weapons without a care and without haste. All the while he grins, eyes glinting dangerously.

He’s beautiful.

He’s dangerous.

Keith is helpless against the pull. The allure. The performance. The ridiculous display that seems so out of place and so absurd and yet so completely and wholly _Lance_. It draws him in and leaves him without the ability to do anything but stare, mouth agape and eyes wide.

Then suddenly Lance is there, grabbing his arm and pulling him out of the way of a falling broadsword. Keith stumbles, but Lance’s momentum never slows. He turns, twisting Keith’s arm with him, letting go to spin Keith away to the outskirts of the fight.

Lance dances away, still spinning on his toes, wing flaring out as he puts both hands on his bow. His momentum carries him around, and he hits the galra who had been attacking Keith on the back. Not enough to damage, but surely enough to hurt. Definitely enough to get his attention. “Get your head in the game, pretty boy!”

Keith snaps out of his dumbfounded trance.

Lance grabs a galra, spinning her around to use as a shield as a throwing axe is aimed his way. It lands in the woman’s chest, and Lance spins her away. She doesn’t immediately go down, but she does once one of Keith’s feathers lodges into her neck.

Lance shoots Keith a wide grin. A quick wink. And then he’s diving back into the depths of the fray.

He moves with a speed and agility that’s admirable. Feathers of his wings shifting between the galra in his wake. Playful and taunting as weapons fall on nothing. His tail bats them mockingly as he slips past. All the while he laughs. He taunts. He pats them on the shoulder before twisting away from their grasp.

_“You call that a swing? My nephew can hit harder, and he’s barely a century old!”_

_“Oooh, gotta be quicker than that. I like to play hard to get.”_

_“What’s the matter, fellas? Having trouble getting a little tail?”_

Keith rolls his eyes, but he feels a smirk twitching at the corner of his lips. He sticks to the edge of the fight, moving with them, keeping space between them. The galra barely seem to take notice of him anymore, far too wrapped up with the blue feathered man weaving between them. Even as Keith picks them off one by one, glowing pink and red and purple feathers imbedded in their backs and chests and throats, they barely spare him a glance.

Not until the light is fading from their eyes and blood mixes with spittle at the corner of their mouths.

One by one, the galra fall. Bodies littering the ground. Blood staining the grass and soaking into the soil.

When there’s one left, Lance spins, drawing out one of the few remaining arrows in the quiver at this hip. He notches into his bow as he spins, drawing the string in one fluid motion. He stops abruptly as he turns to face the remaining galra. Bow drawn and poised, eyeing down the shaft of the arrow. His smile is gone, lips pursed into a thin line, eyes still alight but hard as gemstones. There’s a deadly stillness about his form that had previously been so full of movement. His wing and tail swirl around him, still subject to the momentum of his turn.

The galra stumbles to a stop, and Keith can see the hesitation and wariness in her posture as she stares down the tip of the arrow.

Keith stands behind her, halfway across the small clearing. His arms pulls back, arrow hot in his hand.

Lance’s eyes flicker over the galra’s shoulder for a fleeting second, meeting his gaze before flickering back to her face. His lips curl into a smile toeing the line between wicked and innocent. “I’m not the one you should be worried about.”

Six of Keith’s feathers dig into her back, piercing deep with the force of his throw. She straightens, a wordless shout escaping her lips, fading to a strained exhale as the last of air is forced from her lungs.

Keith pulls the feathers back to him as her body falls.

“That’s so cool,” Lance says, voice soft and awed as he lowers his bow.

Keith avoids his gaze as he returns his feathers to his wing, feeling the heat sear over his skin as they sink back into place, followed immediately by a warm relief. He releases the energy held captive in his hands, and it crackles along his arms, seeping back into his blood, fading back into the air around them.

“I’ve seen all sorts of uses for our feathers combined with magic, but this is by far the coolest and most frightening.” He drops his arrow back into his quiver, slinging his bow over his shoulder and around his back. Keith glances up in time to catch his lopsided grin and the crinkling of his eyes. He’s no longer emitting that subtle glow. No longer crackling with energy and pent up magic. But Keith still finds it hard to look at him. “It’s very fitting, too.”

“You could do it, too,” Keith says dismissively, using the excuse of picking his way over the bodies to avoid meeting Lance’s eyes.

He sees movement as Lance lifts one shoulder before letting it fall. “I could. With practice. But it’s not really my thing.” He nudges the body at his feet, roughly turning it over and cocking his head to the side. Keith sneaks a glance at him, noting the slight pinch to his brows and press of his frown as he looks over the body. Other than their combined imprisonment, Keith isn’t sure how much experience Lance has with the galra. “My magic is a much more... subtle touch.”

Keith crouches next to the man Lance had knocked out just after his arrival, elbows resting on his knees as he raises an eyebrow, eyes over his shoulder and fixed on Lance. “What _can_ you do?”

Lance’s grin is back in full force. “Why, Keith, are you curious about little ol’ me?”

He bats his lashes, and Keith rolls his eyes, turning back to the body as he mutters, “Forget I asked.”

“You are no fun.”

Keith rolls the man over, looking him over with a critical eye. He can see the gentle rise and fall of his chest. A pulse in his neck.

He slaps the man hard across the face.

“Keith, what the hell—“ Lance is cut off as the man groans, loud and long. He turns his head, body coiling as he rouses to consciousness. “You left one _alive?_ ”

“I need to question him.” Keith watches as the man puts a hand to his forehead, propping himself up on an elbow. His eyes open, focus hazy and dull, lips parted as a groan escapes his throat. Then he meets Keith’s scowl, and his gaze snaps to clarity. He sits up straighter, scrambling backwards, but Keith is faster.

He grabs the front of the man’s shirt, twisting his fingers into the fabric and tugging him to a stop, tugging him forward. His knife is out of its sheath in a flash of movement, pressed to the galra’s neck. He presses the point into the spot where the man’s pulse flutters wildly. He freezes, lips parted, eyes wide as Keith stares him down.

“Tell me about the colosseum,” He says, voice low and hard.

Instantly the man snaps out of his surprise. A hardness settles about his expression. A mask without fear and eyes that won’t budge. He purses his lips into a frown, gaze narrowing, unflinching. Keith has seen this before. The galra aren’t broken easily, nor are they likely to give out knowledge. That won’t, however, stop him from trying.

He shakes him, a quick jerk by the front of his shirt, letting the tip of his knife dig into the skin of his throat. Dark, sickly red beads around the point of his dagger before trailing down the curve of the galra’s throat. “I know you know. Tell me where it is.”

He’s met with silence.

He shakes the man again. “Tell me!”

The galra turns his head, pressing his neck even more into Keith’s blade as he spits on the ground. Glare never once leaving Keith’s.

Keith grits his teeth, weight shifting as he presses into the man’s space. “Tell me where the champion is. I know you know. _Tell me_.”

He doesn’t realize he’s shouting, nor does he realize his dagger is cutting along the man’s neck, causing the trickle of blood soaking into his collar to widen, pain sharp in the man’s eyes even as his expression refuses to fold, until there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Keith,” Voice gentle but stern, Lance ground him immediately, snapping Keith back to himself. He doesn’t budge, but nor does he push further. He stops, but he doesn’t yield. Eyes narrowed on the galra. The hand on his shoulder squeezes, it’s comforting but it’s also instant. “Let me have a go at it, okay?”

His voice has that lightness that always seems to embody Lance. A playfulness and an ease that he wears like a second skin. But there’s something else there. A hardness and a seriousness that’s steel beneath his soft exterior. It hits something in Keith. Something that makes him want to listen. Makes him want to trust. It reminds him of eyes flaring with determined fire and a dangerous smile in the dim lighting of a galra prison.

His fingers uncurl from the man’s shirt, knife pulling away from his throat. Keith nods once, pushing himself to his feet and backing away. Never once letting his eyes stray from the galra.

He moves off to the side, giving them space but hovering close. He crosses his arms over his chest, leaning against a tree as Lance drops into a crouch in the spot Keith had just vacated.

Lance is chuckling softly, offhandedly, glancing over his shoulder at Keith before turning back to the galra, leaning in almost conspiratorially. “Man, what a hothead, right?”

Keith bristles, eyes narrowing, but he says nothing.

The man glares, eyes flickering to Keith before settling back at Lance.

“Not much of a talker, huh? That’s fine. I’ll do the talking. All you gotta do is listen. And listen, man, hothead over there? I’m pretty sure he’s like, two seconds away from gutting you. I mean, look what he did to everyone else.” He gestures vaguely to the side, and the galra hesitates before glancing around them. His frown deepens. “At least they got quick deaths. I don’t think he’ll be quick about it with you. But listen, if you tell us where the colosseum is, I might be able to convince him to let you go.”

The man’s eyes slide to Keith. Keith meets his gaze steadily, scowl fixed firmly in place. The galra eyes him up warily for a moment, silence pressing around them, broken only by the rustle of wind in the trees.

“Honestly, this is your best shot.” Lance says it offhandedly, without much care of the outcome. He does, however, put a hand on the man’s shoulder. He flinches, but Lance makes no move to hurt him. It’s almost a friendly gesture. _Almost_. Had it not been for the hard glint in his eyes or the way his fingertips dig into the man’s shoulder. “This, or certain, slow, painful, agonizing death. Don’t be an idiot. You’re not an idiot, right?” He flashes a grin that’s far too toothy and far too sharp.

But the came finally caves. His body slumps, a nervousness finally cracking the mask he wears. A fear finally entering his eyes. “To the west. By the mountains. It’s our biggest arena, and that’s where the Champion fights—“

His words are gut off with a sickening gurgle as one of Keith’s feathers digs deep into his throat. He pulls it back quickly, and the body falls. Lance’s hand remains hovering in the air for a second, back straighter as he blinks.

Then a pout purses his lips, and he glances over his shoulder. “I wasn’t _done_ yet.”

Keith pushes off the tree, already stalking across the small clearing, picking his way over bodies. “And now you are.”

“You really should work on your people skills.”

“He told me all the information I need.”

Lance sighs, patting the fallen man on the cheek before pushing himself to his feet and brushing off his hands. “Well, I said I’d try. Didn’t think it’d work, though— Hey! Where’re you going?”

Keith pauses, hand on a tree trunk. Lance is glaring at him, though his lips are still pursed into a pout. Keith hardens his heart and his resolve, stamping out the guilt before it has time to take root. “Don’t follow me again.”

“A _thank you_ would be polite.”

“I didn’t _need_ your help.” Keith turns, leaving the galra bodies and Lance behind, setting a course toward the setting sun.

“Doesn’t mean you couldn’t use it!” Lance calls after him, but it’s soft. A resignation and defeat there that Keith tries not to think about. Refuses to feel anything about.

He feels the urge to turn around like an itch beneath his skin, a heat on the back of his neck, but he ignores that, too.

 

* * *

 

_✦ ✧ For humans, magic is like fire. For us, it is water and air ✧ ✦_

 

* * *

 

 

The water is cold, but it’s a welcome chill. It clears his head. Clears his heart. Clears his soul. The sharp prickle against his flesh heightens his senses. He knows if he stays in it too long, he’ll go numb and it’ll lose it’s pleasantness. But for now, it’s refreshing.

As he washes away the dirt of the road and the days of grim that have built up on his skin, he feels fresher. It’s more than just a physical cleanliness. It goes beyond just his body. He feels freer as the dirt washes away. He feels his heart open and the building and bottling negativity wash away with the gentle current of the stream. His magic sparks a heat in his veins, warm and comforting in the icy water, and that, too, seems to run free of toxins.

The spring waters are always this cold in the northern forests of Ionia, as the snowfall from the mountains melt and rush into the streams and rivers. It’ll be warmer come summer, but even then, it’ll be cool enough to offer relief.

He crouches low, dunking his head beneath the water’s surface, feeling the light tug of the current in his hair. He runs his fingers through it, shaking out what dirt might have built up before he stands again. He swipes the water back from his face, sweeping his hair back from his forehead.

And then he heard the long, low, appreciative whistle.

He stiffens, wing flaring up as his feathers rustle. His knife is lying with his clothes, where he’s washed them out and left them out in the sun to dry. But he’s not defenseless. His fingers are already at his wing when he hears the voice.

“So you _do_ like water. If I had known getting you undressed was all it took, I would have—“ He cuts off with an indignant squawk as two feather daggers streak through the air at him. He ducks in time, practically throwing himself into a crouch as they imbed themselves into the tree trunk where his head had been.

He glares at Keith, lips pursed and brows furrowed. It’s cute. Almost.

Keith smirks, raising a hand that glows with energy as his magic calls his feathers back. They twitch in the wood before dislodging, shooting back to him. He snatches them out of the air, turning as he puts them back into place on his wing. “How many times do I have to tell you to stop following me?”

Lance straightens, making a show of brushing off his clothes and adjusting them. He looks thoughtful as he hums. “Depends.”

Keith cocks an eyebrow. “On what?”

Lance grins. “On how many times you have to say it before you give up.”

Keith snorts a short laugh, and Lance looks proud of himself as he leans back against a tree, arms crossed loosely over his lean chest. The fact that he chooses clothes that leave it on display is completely unnecessary, in Keith’s opinion. It’s distracting. Though, he supposes, that’s probably the point.

He eyes his own clothes on the stream’s bank, spread out along the rocks and grass. His lips purse, tugging down at the edges into a small frown. Like every time Lance has shown up in his life, Keith feels the need to get away. The urge to run. Lance is just... so _much_. And just his presence makes Keith feel so much. So much that he’s not used to feeling. His companionship had been treasured when they had been held captive together, but now... Keith isn’t sure how to handle it.

He tells himself he’s not running away. Not exactly. He’s not threatened by Lance, nor does he hate Lance. He’s just... moving _toward_ his goal. He has a job to do, and he doesn’t want to drag Lance into it with him. Lance doesn’t deserve to be dragged down into the dirt and muck, living on the edge with a blade in hand an blood dried on his wingtips. Lance deserves to live carefree, peaceful and without troubles.

He deserves to be in the light, and Keith refuses to drag him into the darkness.

Here and now, Keith feels distinctly vulnerable. Body bare and open for Lance to see. It makes him want to curl in on himself. Hide behind his wing. He refuses to show the weakness, but boy does he feel it. Curling and writhing inside him. He wants to cover himself up. To get away before Lance makes him stay.

Because that’s the root of the problem, isn’t it? He’s afraid if he dwells to long, Lance will somehow convince him to stop moving. And he needs to keep moving. Ever forward. For Shiro. For his people.

He glances back to Lance only to find the man watching him, eyes lidded and smirk curving at the edges of his lips. “Done already?”

“Yes.”

“Then I suppose you better get out before you prune. Or freeze.”

Keith purses his lips once more, eyes flickering to his clothes before he looks back to Lance. “Do you mind?” He tries to sound firm. Indifferent. Irritated. He’s afraid he comes off tense, timid, and a hair too flustered.

He watches as lance looks him up and down. From the tip of his head, to his wing, down his torso to where his waist meets the water. For so little of him visible, Lance takes his time. When he mets Keith’s eyes again, there’s something there. Something dark, but not unpleasant. It makes heat crawl up Keith’s neck, settling on his cheeks even as a shiver runs down his spine. Goosebumps crawl across his skin that have nothing to do with the water.

“I definitely don’t mind.” His voice is a purr, suggestive as it is playful. But when Keith frowns, Lance just chuckles and pushes himself off the tree. He turns, leaning his hip against the trunk, back to Keith, facing off into the forest.

Keith blinks for a moment, hesitant and surprised. He hadn’t expected Lance to actually listen to him. He wades through the water, hesitating where the bank started slop upwards, glancing at Lance’s back.

“I’m not going to look.” It’s soft, amused, but there’s something his amusement is hiding. Something that sounds suspiciously like exasperation. Perhaps even hurt. “I thought we were past this level of trust.”

Keith feels the heat on his face increase, though this time it’s through his own shame and embarrassment at being caught hesitating. He pulls himself from the water, shaking off his body and his wing. He pulls his leggings on as quickly as he can, adjusting the straps and the fabric until it sits properly. It’s difficult. Both himself and the cloth are still damp, but he doesn’t mind the minor irritation. They’ll dry eventually.

Already feeling far less vulnerable, and perhaps a little shamed of his distrust, he allows himself to pause before donning his tunic. Back turned to Lance, he stretches his wing, fingers combing through the feathers. Once, he would have quickly pulled on his shirt and left wing care until he was alone. Now, however, with only one wing left, he feels reluctant to leave his feathers disheveled. He realizes now that he had taken his wings for granted, and the ache of his loss is still fresh.

He works quickly, but carefully. Each touch to each feather one of gentle reverence. Deep purples and pinks with veins of red running through them. He’s never thought of his feathers as particularly beautiful, but there’s an innate pride deep within him. They may not be perfect, but they’re his. They’re a gift from his parents. From a people he’s never known.

His eyes wander from his feathers to his arms, down his chest and torso. His body is well defined and lean from decades of movement, fighting, and survival. Pale skin shaping around muscles that he never tried to build but formed anyway. The smoothness of it, however, is marred by white scars and the purple yellow blotches of bruises on the mend.

He doesn’t understand why Lance would have been eager to see him. He’s nothing to be looked at. Nothing special. He’s far more impressive, and confident, covered in his dark clothes, hood hiding his ears, and feathers between his fingers.

“You haven’t taken care of your wing.” It’s soft. Unassuming. An observational comment without point or pressure. Dancing lightly around a spot that he knows must be sore. Keith hadn’t heard him turn around, but he’s not surprised he has.

Lance is obviously trying to be gentle, and Keith knows there’s no judgement in his tone, but he bristles anyway, feathers puffing up before he closes his eyes and forces a deep breath. He lets it out in a long sigh, letting the admission slip through his lips. “I don’t have enough magic to grow a new one.”

Shame rushes through him, white hot and sharp. It’s through no fault of his own, and he knows it. Hell, even Lance hadn’t grown a new wing. But the admission that he, as a vastaya, can’t summon enough magic to fix his physical form, is enough of a reminder that his homeland is dying. His people are dying. Magic is dying. And he’s not as powerful or strong as he should be.

They are descendants of the Vastayashai’rei. An ancient spirit race. Natural shapeshifters. Beings of pure magic and energy. Their human blood keeps them locked into bodies of flesh and bone, but in their veins still runs the magic of their ancestors. They might be born with some affixed characteristics, but how those characteristics present themselves can be molded. It can be changed. They can wield their magic to shape themselves as they see fit. As they please.

Or at least, they had been able to. Once upon a time before humans encroached so heavily on their homelands and the galra weren’t tainting their ley lines and temples.

Wild magic is still there. It’s still around him. It’s in the forests. It’s in the air. It’s in the earth. It’s in the water. It’s in his blood. He can call to it. Command it. Just as it gives him life and keeps him sustained.

While he has enough power to easily command his feathers to steel, he doesn’t have enough in his blood to regrow a whole new wing. Nor is there enough in the air here to pull from. Perhaps if he went further north, into depths of the wilderness untouched by others. Perhaps if he found a temple and a tribe to help him.

But on his own, he can do nothing. And that’s a truth that stings, sharp and raw, even as he’s already accepted it.

“I know,” Lance’s voice is closer. Softer. Keith’s ears twitch toward the sound. There’s a deep seeded sorrow in his tone that hits at the heart of the issue, and Keith knows that Lance feels it, too. For all his posturing and flippant attitude, for all his cocky airheadedness, Lance knows. He feels the drain on the forest, and on himself, just as much as Keith does. It’s a loss they both feel. A heaviness in their hearts.

And somehow, for some reason, Keith mourns Lance’s loss more than his own.

“I couldn’t grow a new one either.” He says it with far more indifferent grace than Keith thinks he could, but there’s an ache beneath his words. His own shame. “But with only one, that wing must feel awkward and off balance.”

It does. Incredibly so. It’s taken Keith weeks to get used to it. And even now, when he falls too heavily into old instincts, he’s thrown off balance. His left side feels far too heavy. His right, far too light. He’s been learning how to hold his weight to accommodate, but running still feels strange. Climbing feels stranger. Their wings had never been built to fly, but they had been useful for gliding and slowly momentum. Now Keith finds it hard to do even that.

The worst part, however, is when he reaches for feathers to find nothing but air.

Keith’s tongue feels thick, a lump in his throat that he’s finding hard to swallow. He doesn’t want to attempt to form words, so he only nods. Once. Sharp. It’s barely needed. Lance knows exactly what having one wing like this feels like. And that fact opens another pit of guilt and shame in his gut.

“You can always do what I did.” There’s a new excitement in his voice. Something far lighter that leaves the ache behind. Keith hears a rustle of movement and he takes a step back, turning to face Lance as the vastaya spins, wing flaring out with a flourish. “ _Ta-da!_ ”

Now that they’re not in the heat of battle, Keith can get a much closer look. It really does look like a cloak, pinned just behind his right shoulder and sweeping down and across his back. It has no joint, but Lance can still extend it, stretch it out to display his feathers proudly.

As his spin completes, he does just that, taking a step back in order to bow, one arm extended with his wing and the other crossing over his chest. It’s so needlessly dramatic, so carelessly playful, that Keith feels a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

He tries to keep it down, but knows Lance sees it. He can tell by the way his face lights up with a grin. He straightens, wing falling back down to caress his back, and he steps forward. “It helps a lot with balance. Much more manageable when there’s only one. Not to mention,” He spins once more, putting his wing on display, letting it wrap around him with his momentum, flaring out as the end. He stops when he’s facing Keith again, shooting him twin finger guns and a devilish wink. “It looks good.”

Keith snorts, head turning as his wing twitches, extending and stretching enough for him to see it. He’s had this wing shape for as long as he can remember. He doesn’t think he’s ever changed it. He was found like this. Grew up like this. But Lance is right. One wing like this is inconvenient at best. Perhaps... perhaps it is time for a change.

“It’s been... a while...” He says slowly, brows furrowing as he reaches out to run his fingers through his feathers. He doesn’t think he’s ever changed much of his physical appearance, despite knowing he can.

He made his ears taller once. Bigger. Sticking more upwards than back with the curve of his natural ear like Lance’s. It had been a poor attempt at making something of himself look more like the Marmorans. More cat-like. He had been young and inexperienced, and he’d never bothered to change them back.

“I can help,” Lance says, bright and cheerful, offhanded and eager. Keith looks at him, perhaps too quick and too sharp, for Lance flinches back. Curls in on himself. A hesitancy and sheepishness tainting his excitement. “If... if you’ll let me?”

And Keith really can’t deny him much of anything when he looks at him like that.

He turns his head, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as he nods.

It’s all the permission Lance needs to move behind him, stepping up close until Keith can feel the warmth of his body against his bare back. He closes his eyes, squeezing them tight and ignoring the flicker of hot self consciousness knowing that the ugly stump of his missing wing is bare and visible.

He stiffens when Lance’s hands come down on bare skin, still cold with the lingering chill of the stream. One lands on his left shoulder, while the other gently presses between his shoulder blades, palm flat against his spine. Lance’s touch is strong, gentle but firm. His fingers long but steady, palms warm and inviting. His fingertips are calloused, skin soft but worn. Keith finds himself relaxing into the touch.

“Breathe with me,” Lance says, his voice close to Keith’s ear, breath brushing along the soft fur there. “Breathe with me and focus. Channel your magic to me. I’ll do the shaping.”

Eyes closed, he listens for Lance’s breath. He feels it warm on his skin. Feels it in the hands on his back. He trembles, lightly, a fear and anxiousness rising in him, but Lance’s touch quells the worst of it. He breathes in deep, holds it, and let it out as Lance does.

As the air rushes from his lungs, he unlocks his magic. Taps into it and lets it flow. He feels it fill is veins, tugging from his blood and the air around him. Feels it seeping through where his feet touch the earth. Energy crackles across his sin, hair standing on end. He feels the magic hum. A buzz that’s just as much apart of him as his wings are. He feels it crawl across his feathers, making them flare out, drifting in a wind that only he can feel.

He feels Lance’s magic, too. Where Keith’s is hot and warm, searing and burning, Lance’s is cool and calming, a balm on an ache he didn’t know he had. Their temperatures seem to reverse. Keith’s skin warm, and Lance’s hands cool where they touch him. Though not as dynamic as Keith’s energy, Lance’s magic is formidable on its own. There’s a depth to it. A strength. It brews beneath the surface. The undercurrents of the ocean. A storm on the horizon.

As Keith breathes, he lets his magic flow to Lance’s hands, focusing on where they touch. He feels Lance’s gentle pull, a tug on his magic, and he lets Lance take it. He let’s him redirect the flow of energy through his body. It’s a strange sensation. To feel this intimate, innate part of him controlled by another. But it’s not uncomfortable, nor is it unpleasant.

He feels the air around them shift. A breeze that doesn’t touch the trees surrounding them or the grass beneath their feet. The air is alive with it. Buzzing across their skin and singing to the magic in their veins.

Then Keith feels the shift. It’s strange. Unsettling, but not painful. Heat. Nearly too hot to bear but cooled at the edges by Lance’s touch. It focuses on the base of Keith’s wing, extending along the bone, encasing each and every feather. It shifts. Moves. Sliding and gliding across his back. It’s as if he can feel none of it. Oddly detached. Yet at the same time, he can feel it all. Feels the shift and crack of his wing bone, reforming and repositioning, losing it’s joint and forming something lighter and more seamless.

Eyes closed and breath steady, he waits as he feels his wing shift from his shoulder blade to just below his shoulder itself. Then the heat focuses on his remaining stump, and the odd sensation of it receding, pulling back into his body, dissipating until it’s as if it never existed in the first place.

It’s a process that feels like hours just as much as it feels like seconds. Time is a strange thing when wild magic is involved.

Then the magic recedes. Lance stops pulling, and his energy rushes back into him, flooding his veins before settling out, excess dissipating back out into the air, into the earth.

Lance’s hands leave him, fingertips lingering, almost reluctant. He takes a step back, giving Keith space.

He opens his eyes, breath held as he reaches over his shoulder to feel the new base of his wing. The familiar feeling of his feathers is a comfort. The way his wing lies along his back is odd. He shifts, turning this way and that, getting a feel for how it moves, how it balances. He stretches it out wide, a flare to his side of purple and deep maroons.

“Beautiful.”

He turns then, wing dropping to settle along his back. Lance is looking at him strangely again. Eyes lidded. Irises dark. Something soft and fond in their depths that has a heat twisting inside Keith’s gut. The smile on his face is barely there, but Keith gets the distinct impression of it anyway. There’s nothing particularly flirtatious in his tone, nothing lewd or suggestive or cocky.

He says it like a fact. Like he’s in awe. Like it’s something known, but he can’t help but say anyway.

And that makes it worse as his heart squeezes and butterflies cause havoc in Keith’s stomach.

He turns then, reaching for his tunic, busying himself with it to avoid looking at Lance. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He says it as if Keith had asked for nothing more than a slice of bread or for a moment of his time. “Hey! Now we match!” Keith glances over as Lance grins, spreading out his wing and gesturing to it. “You’re left, and I’m right. Because I’m always right.”

Keith rolls his eyes with a soft scoff. It takes him a moment to figure out the best way to adjust his tunic with his new wing configuration. It’s not perfect, and he knows he’ll have to make adjustments later. Now, however, is not the time. He tightens his belt around his waist, making sure his dagger’s sheath is in place as Lance steps up to the edge of the stream, dipping a toe into the waters.

“A bath sounds just about perfect,” He says, more to himself than to Keith, already reaching to unclasp his small cape.

Keith turns on his heel before Lance can undress, heat flaring in his cheeks as he moves swiftly and purposefully toward the treeline. It’s not long before he hears the splash of Lance jumping into the stream.

“Not gonna stay to watch the show?”

Keith waves over his shoulder, otherwise ignoring him as he disappears into the forest.

He does, however, turn around once he’s melted into the shadows, hand on a tree as his gaze lands on the vastayan in the stream. He’s facing away from Keith, wing spread wide to show the lean muscles of his back, dark skin smooth and tempting. The water cuts off the view right at the dimples of his lower back. He stretches his arms high over his head, and Keith feels something in him stir as he watches the way muscles shift beneath skin.

He looks away sharply, heat twisting in his gut as he stomps further into the forest.

He hears a laughter like wind chimes, light and bubbling, follow him into the shadows.

 

* * *

 

_✦ ✧ Magic is in the heart. Magic is in the rhythm ✧ ✦_

 

* * *

 

 

It’s not often he decides to stay in human towns, and he can’t say what convinces him to do it this time.

Perhaps it’s because it’s been a while since he’s had a hot meal and a warm bath. Perhaps it’s because, despite his love for silence and solitude, there’s something about having voices around him that’s innately comforting. Perhaps it’s because this town in close to the western mountains, and where there’s people, there’s gossip. Gossip that can give him fragments of truths and whispers that can guide him toward the colosseum.

Perhaps it’s because Lance had finally caught up to him after days of absence, and when they passed the town, Lance had given him the biggest eyes and the brightest smile. A smile that only fell when Keith said no. His expression didn’t contort into a pout, nor did he beg. His smile merely became sad, disappointment lingering at the edges of his eyes and in his gaze as it lingered on the buildings in the distance.

And that had been enough for Keith to cave.

He doesn’t admit to that, however. He tells Lance that he wants information. He doesn’t know if Lance believes him or not. Keith refuses to meet his eyes to find out.

And that’s how he finds himself sitting alone at a table in the back of an the common room of an inn, back to the corner and a nearly untouched mug of ale in front of him.

This village is nestled deep in the western forests, just off the main road that cuts through Ionia. It’s far from the heart of human civilization. A cozy little place where people seem far friendlier towards him and don’t flinch when they see the color of his feathers. He’s even seen a couple other vastaya wandering the streets. None from tribes he knows, but distinct enough all the same.

He likes these parts of Ionia. Little pockets where human settlements meet the natural Ionian wilds. Where humans and vastaya walk side by side. Perhaps not together, but without conflict. He can even feel the magic in the air here. It’s a soft buzz that reminds him that not all hope is lost.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from flinching whenever a patron is particularly loud or when plates clatter. His eyes dart around the room, keeping track of movement and those that fill the space. None of them have acted hostile toward him, nor do any of them spare him more than a curious glance. But habits are hard to break, and he’d rather keep these ones. They’ve kept him alive this long.

Across the room, Lance is perched on a table. He sits half turned, one leg dangling off the table to rest on the chair he should be occupying. Another lute is in his hands. A new one that he purchased not long after they got to town. Keith isn’t sure how he has human money, but he supposes his performances might pay that way.

The table he sits on is fully occupied. Mostly by human women, who giggle as he preens. But they’re not the only ones who watch with awe, eyes wide and attention transfixed. Several tables around him contain watchers. Men and women and children alike. They watch. They cheer. They feed Lance compliments and food and ale.

And he sings.

Between his storytelling and his lighthearted conversations with his audience, he sings. He sings in the ancient Lhotlan tongue. The one Keith doesn’t know but feels deep within the depths of his soul. An ancient magic that calls to him, tugs at him, and whispers power of a time long forgotten.

Keith hasn’t heard him since since they were imprisoned together. Weeks ago. Between one and two months. Keith has been finding it easier to tell time in more human increments. He finds himself counting the days before Lance finds him again. Before he pops back into Keith’s life with a flourish and a smile.

 _Days_. He counts in days now. It’s surreal and confusing. What’s more confusing is the profound hollowness in his chest when the sun sets and he hasn’t seen or heard from Lance. It’s strange because he hasn’t felt this way about anyone since Shiro. He’s never felt such a desperate need to see someone since the Marmora village was destroyed and his people split up. And that longing ache has dulled over the centuries.

It was sharper when Shiro disappeared, crushing and suffocating, but that, too, has faded. Given way to determination and a drive that keeps him going.

But with Lance, it’s fresh. It’s different. It’s... wistful, almost. He doesn’t _need_ Lance. Nor does he need to find Lance. Lance isn’t in danger, nor is he looking to save him. He just... feels a brief buzzing warmth when he’s there, and feels distinctly colder when he’s not.

He hates it.

He hates how weak he is to Lance’s smile and his laughter, his wants and his wills. The best way to protect himself is to stay away. Even if staying away makes him ache.

As Lance sings, he tends to do so with his eyes closed. His voice is soft and lilting, rising and falling in a vocal range that Keith doesn’t think he can imitate. Lance sings with an incredible sense of control, each word rolling off his tongue with grace, volume and pitch forming each syllable and bringing it forward with a push of passion before pulling the next back to a whisper. He leads the audience along, leaving off every note with them breathlessly awaiting the next.

His song rises and falls, tells a tale that Keith doesn’t know but feels familiar all the same. In the galra prison, Lance’s voice and his songs had been a comfort. His voice had been dried and cracked but all the more beautiful for it. For his struggle. For his survival.

Here and now, his voice is smooth as silk and rich as honey, but no less comforting. It warms the room far more than the fire burning in the hearth could ever hope to. It wraps the room up in his song’s depths, intertwines the words into the magic already buzzing in the air, causing a sense of homeyness. A sense of belonging.

Eyes closed and face relaxed, there’s a slight pinch between his brows even as his lips curve up at the edges. There’s a happiness to his song, a hope and a warmth, but there’s a sadness there, too. A melancholy. The bright power and majesty of what was once there with all the sorrow that it’s long forgotten.

Keith is transfixed. Unable to look away from Lance as he sings. He’s beautiful when he dances around, feathers gleaming in the sun, but Keith thinks he’s more beautiful like this. With the firelight casting his face in warm hues and casting shadows to highlight his features as well as his pain.

And when he opens his eyes, he’s starring right back at Keith.

He smiles, lips still shaping the words of their ancient tongue, but it’s not a sad smile. Nor is it a grin. It’s something softer. Something lighter. Something that makes Keith dream of nights beneath the stars, sharing constellations and lore painted across the dark sky.

Lance’s eye twitches. Not a full wink, but the hint of one. Something private in his eyes. A look and a smile meant only for Keith before he turns back to his audience, grin growing brighter and posture going cocky.

Keith looks away, staring at the shifting patterns in the worn wood of his table, hiding his flushed cheeks behind his mug of ale.

 

* * *

 

 

The plucked sounds of the lute echoed between the trees. Each note was sharp before fading out, replaced by another sharp start and a fading tone. The plucks were slow. Almost careless in their delivery. None of the notes quite led into the next, but they wove together in an intricate melody all the same. It gives Keith the distinct impression of something that should be faster, but is slowed down to the point where it abandons recognition.

Still, it’s idle and careless enough that he hesitates to call it music. He might have called it practicing, perhaps even song writing, had there been a single note out of place to indicate trial and error.

A soft voice accompanies the notes. A gentle humming. A rolling pitch from low to high, half forming around words without fully committing. Merely giving the impression of the words in a gentle shape of sound. It’s wistful. Soft. Almost like an afterthought. Thoughtful and distant. Keith wants to say there’s a disconnect between it all: the notes, the humming, the forest. But they all weave together despite it all.

And this gentle melody has been following him for hours.

Now he’s counting time in _hours_.

“Stop following me.” He says it gruffly, a huffed mutter beneath his breath. But he knows Lance can hear him.

The humming stops, but the notes continue. “Not following,” He says, light and wistful, playful undertones and tongue-in-cheek. “I’m just walking this way, too.”

Keith lifts his chin high, lips pursing into a frown. Lance is somewhere behind him, and he knows the man can’t see his face, but he hopes he can feel his scowl all the same. “And if I decide to turn right now?”

There’s a thoughtful hum. “Then I suppose I would decide to turn, too.”

“That’s called following.”

“I prefer to think of it as we have the same destination.”

“Then what’s your destination.”

“Where ever you are, of course.”

Keith sighs long and loud, ears twitching as he picks up Lance’s soft chuckles. Then he begins to hum again, singing softly under his breath, and Keith continues forward. He’s tried telling him to go away, and he knows from experience that it doesn’t work. Ignoring him also doesn’t work, but it’s all he has. Unless he sprints off into the trees to ditch him, but even then, he’s not certain Lance just won’t decide to run after him.

So he keeps walking. Sticks to his course. And he lets Lance do as he wills. If he wants to follow Keith until his feet are sore and sleep on the cold ground instead of in a tavern surrounded by warmth and laughter, fine. That’s not Keith’s problem.

He keeps his course pointed ever westward. His information says that the colosseum is somewhere along the coastal western mountains. Though where, exactly, he’s not quite sure. The humans have only known whispers, and the galra haven’t exactly been cooperative.

Still, he’s heard that there are stories of a section of the mountains carved out. An area where humans were chased from their homes. Where the surrounding forest feels haunted and unnerving. They’re too deaf to understand what the taint of shadow magic feels like, but Keith knows that must be what it is. He’s getting close. He knows he must be. The western mountain range is massive, but he’ll systematically comb it to find what he’s looking for. Besides, it’s not like the galra have ever done their best to hide their presence. They shouldn’t be too hard to find.

It’s taken him weeks to get this far, but the mountains are finally looming in the distance. He walks until the sun sets behind them, and then he continues until the air starts to lose the last of its warmth and the moon rises high. His eyes see better in the dark than humans, but not nearly as well as the Marmora tribe.

He trudges onward, determination fueling his steps as well as the knowledge that if he stops, he’ll have to face Lance. Then his foot catches on the root of a tree, rising unassuming from the earth, and he stumbles.

The music stops abruptly, and there’s suddenly a hand on his arm. Fingers long and warm as they steady him. He keeps his eyes down as he tugs his arm free, perhaps not as forcefully as he had intended.

“Thanks.” He mumbles.

“No problem,” And he doesn’t need to see Lance’s face to hear the smile in his voice. Keith starts forward again, but Lance’s voice makes him pause. “When do you plan on stopping for the night.”

Keith lifts his chin, gazing out over the trees, to where the dark shadows of the mountains stand ominous against the navy blue of the night sky, blotting out the stars. His lips twist into a frown, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides.

“They’ll be there in the morning.” Lance says softly, and suddenly he’s there, standing next to Keith, a comforting hand on his shoulder. Keith hates how he melts into the touch. “Your body needs rest, and _I_ need my beauty sleep.”

That pulls a soft snort from him, and he rolls his eyes as he pulls away. “Fine.”

He walks into the trees, off the path they had been following. He weaves through the trees until he finds a familiar layout in the forest: a cluster of trees forming a loose but small clearing, close enough together to block out light. The circular clearing just a fraction too perfect to be natural.

He walks to the center of the space, dropping into a crouch as he places one palm flat on the ground. He closes his eyes, feeling the faint hum and vibration of magic flowing through the earth. Just as he thought. A small puddle in the flow of a ley line. A small pool of magic beneath the earth where energy pauses and swirls before moving onward.

“Here.” He says as he stands.

Lance hums as he steps into the clearing, swinging his lute over his shoulder by the brightly woven strap. He nods, expression thoughtful. “I like it here.”

Keith knows he does. Any vastaya would feel at home in this little clearing. A pocket of safety and peace. A temporary safe haven.

Keith busies himself with finding firewood, picking around the trees that border their little pocket clearing. He doesn’t tell Lance to go away again, nor does he ask for help. He avoids looking at him, all but ignoring his presence. But Lance falls into step with him anyway. Slips himself right into Keith’s routine without question or comment.

When Keith drops a pile of wood to the ground in the center of the clearing, Lance places his things gingerly to the ground: peeling the unstrung bow and its holster from his back, removing his quiver from his waist, pulling the lute from his shoulder, and dropping the bag he had tied around his back. Then he drops to his knees and starts arranging the pieces of wood, snapping branches and stacking logs, stuffing them with kindling.

He does it with quick and practiced fingers, humming softly to himself, and for a moment, Keith watches. It hadn’t been a skill or knowledge that he anticipated from Lance, yet here he is. Setting up firewood perhaps better and far neater than Keith would have.

Lance is full of surprises, and each one he learns settles into his chest with a bead of warmth.

He turns away to find more kindling.

“You should get a cloak that doesn’t hide your wing.”

The comment gives him pause. It’s said so offhanded and casual. Like he’s merely observing the weather. Keith is crouched down, picking up fallen twigs, and he turns, brows furrowing. But Lance isn’t looking at him. He’s still arranging the kindling with a practiced, precise, and steady hand.

“I don’t see any reason to,” He says after a long moment of silence, pushing himself to his feet and walking back into the clearing.

He’s worn cloaks like this for centuries. Ever since he and Shiro left their home behind. It’s long and heavy, dark and ambiguous. It hides his wings well enough, though the shape is difficult to hide altogether. It allows him to slip into the shadows and avoid direct human attention. He makes sure the hood, too, is sturdy enough to hide his ears beneath when he needs to.

It’s comforting. It’s safety. It’s a cloak of shadows. And it hides his wing even better now that his wing itself flows down his back in a cape-like fashion.

Lance glances up as Keith drops more wood at his feet. His face is open, ghost of a smile on his lips and something unreadable gleaming in his eyes. Keith can see that even in the darkness, and he hopes his own face is obscured by shadows. He doesn’t know what sort of expression he wears.

“I never took you for one to hide.”

He shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s easier this way.”

“Perhaps, but you shouldn’t be ashamed of who you are—“

“I’m not ashamed!”

“Your wing is beautiful.” Keith’s mouth snaps shut, jaw clenched tight and lips pursed as he scowls. A ghost of a smile touches Lance’s lips. “Your feathers are beautiful. You shouldn’t hide them.”

Something warm trickles into his chest, filling a hollow that had been dormant for years. Unlike how most things Lance makes him feel, however, this one is familiar. It’s the same warmth he felt when the Marmora told him his wings didn’t make him different, they made him unique. It’s the same warmth that he felt when whenever Shiro said his feathers were pretty. It’s the same warmth he felt whenever he spread his wings to dry them in the summer sun only to catch the proud and fond looks on the faces of his tribe.

Acceptance. But more than that. Appreciation. Fondness. A place of belonging. A place of pride.

Unlike before, however, the warmth runs hot and molten, and the warmth burns as it touches the numbness that’s taken root in his heart. The contrast is overwhelming and near painful, making his chest feel uncomfortably tight and his lungs too full.

He channels it to his fingertips and drops to a crouch, feeling his magic react like a spark as he touches the wood pile Lance had crafted. It ignites, consuming the kindling and building flames far faster than a natural fire should.

Lance squawks, scrambling back from the blaze, and Keith chuckles, feeling it bubble up his throat and past his lips before he can stop it. When he pulls his hand away, the fire dims back down to a natural level, crackling and warm and bright in the darkness of the night.

As they both sit around the fire, settling into companionable silence, Lance pulls his bag into his lap, riffling through it. Keith wraps his arms around his knees, staring into the fire until it burns his eyes and dots dance in his vision. The warmth of it is just enough to ward off the chill but not nearly enough to chase it away.

“Here.”

He blinks, lifting his head and waiting for his eyes to readjust. Lance sits near him, leaned over and holding out something wrapped in a thin cloth. Keith raises an eyebrow, lifting his gaze to meet Lance’s.

Lance rolls his eyes. “It’s _food_ , Keith. It won’t hurt you.”

His brows pinch, lips pressing down into a small frown, but he takes the parcel anyway, holding it gingerly between his hands. “You brought food?”

“Of course I brought food. I had a feeling we wouldn’t be staying at a tavern tonight, and I’m not about to starve because you like sleeping outside.” He takes another parcel out of his bag and unwraps it, revealing some sort of large bread roll. He takes a large bite out of it, and juices leak down his chin as he chews. He closes his eyes, body relaxing. Then his eyes flicker back open and he meets Keith’s gaze. He swallows thickly, wiping his mouth off with his arm. His expression has gone from pleased to incredulous. “Don’t tell me you never think to bring food?”

Keith shrugs, looking down at the wrapped parcel in his hand.

“Oh my— _Keith._ How do you _eat?_ ”

“I hunt.” He says with a frown, unwrapping the bread roll slowly. He can smell something more about it. Something meaty and savory. He sniffs it cautiously, curiously. Lance still stares at him, frowning. Keith cocks an eyebrow again. “What? Can’t you hunt?”

He scoffs. “Of course I can. Doesn’t mean I want to all the time. Besides, humans really know how to cook. Have you had chocolate?”

“You’re spoiled.”

“And you’re a prude. Next time we stop by a bigger city, I’m finding you some chocolate.”

He bites into the roll, the taste of meat and cheese meeting his tongue. Spices that he can’t find on his own. He chews slowly, savoring it. He hasn’t been particularly fond of food or particularly interested in it for years. He eats what he can find on the road. Occasionally what he can find in human settlements. He eats to sustain himself, but he doesn’t eat for pleasure. He doesn’t think he’s enjoyed a meal since he was back with his tribe.

He doesn’t admit to Lance that the meat roll is delicious. Nor does thank him for it. But judging from the look he sends Keith over the fire, he thinks he knows.

By the time they settle in for the night, the fire is burning low. Keith curls into himself, facing the fire. The ground is cold beneath him, even though the buzzing and the subtle vibrations of the ley line is comforting. He curls his wing and his cloak around him. It does little good. The chill is still a bitter edge of the night, but he’s slept through worse. This is nothing.

Lance, on the other hand, is having a hard time getting comfortable. He rolls around on the grass, alternating between putting his fathers to the fire and his chest. His wing rustles as he shifts, feathers catching the light and looking almost purple against the fire.

Keith watches. He’s always been a light sleeper, and he knows he won’t get anywhere close to a doze as long as Lance is moving. More than that, though, he listens to the forest around them, ears twitching at the slightest sound. The pool in the ley line will protect them. The wild magic in the earth reacts to the presence of both his and Lance’s magic, emitting energy into the air. It shimmers in the space around them, and Keith knows from experience that it’ll shield them from unwanted eyes, throwing off the trail of anyone who comes close.

Still, it never hurts to be careful.

Lance then rolls onto his back with a heavy sigh, limbs sprawled out around him. He stays like that for long enough that Keith wonders if he’s fallen asleep. But then he shifts just slightly, just enough to see his face, and he sees that Lance’s eyes are open, staring up at the sky.

His ears twitch at the sound of Keith’s movement, head lolling to the side to meet his eyes around the edge of the fire. There’s something there that Keith can’t read. A conflict that he has no privy to. Lips pursed into a thing line, scrunching up his nose and his forehead like he does when he thinks. Keith can’t tell what he’s thinking, but he sees the moment a decision is made.

It steels his expression for just a moment before he sighs again, pushing himself to his side, propping himself up on an elbow. He rolls onto his hands and knees, crawling around the fire to where Keith is lying. He stiffens as Lance comes close, but Lance stops before he crawls into Keith’s space. He stops, and he watches, hovering nearby with that same expression on his face.

Almost sad. Just a touch of worry. A sharpness of determination. A hollowness that makes Keith ache.

None of it goes away when his lips quirk up into a small smile. “Mind if I join you?”

“What?” If his voice is hoarse, he blames it on disuse.

Lance nods toward him. “Can I join you?”

Keith props himself up on his elbow, feeling his feathers start to bristle. “You mean, like...”

Lance rolls his eyes. “Like cuddling. Yes, Keith. It’s cold. I’m cold. You’re probably cold, no matter how much you’re trying to hide it. I’m suggesting we cuddle for warmth, and so both of us can actually get some sleep tonight.”

Keith bites at his bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth in a habit he doesn’t like but can’t help. Lance’s gaze catches the movement, and Keith turns away, lying back down and curling a little tighter. “Fine.”

His heart hammers in his chest as Lance crawls closer. It bruises his ribs as Lance lies down behind him. His blood pounds in his ears as he shuffles closer, and they twitch with every sound the man makes. He settles in close, slowly coming close to Keith’s back. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that Keith can feel his body heat hovering just inches away.

Then a hand snakes around Keith’s waist, and he stiffens. He waits, breath caught in his throat, but he doesn’t know what he’s waiting for. Lance’s arm just drapes over his waist, fingers dangling in the air. It’s a strange weight. One he’s not used to. But it’s not entirely unwelcome. His skin buzzes where the warm weight presses down, sending butterflies scattering in his stomach.

Then Lance sighs, soft, slow, and content. The exhale brushes past Keith’s hair, caressing his ears. They twitch with it. His toes curl.

“Much better.” His voice is so close. Low and ragged with exhaustion that he hasn’t let show before this moment. He had followed Keith relentlessly throughout the day and had never complained once. Keith had thought it hadn’t bothered him. He’s realizing now that perhaps it had, but even Lance wasn’t above hiding his weaknesses.

Keith bites his bottom lip, sucking it between his teeth. As tired as he is, he can’t sleep. Not now. No matter how comfortable he is with Lance’s presence, he’s so close. Too close. Keith is far, far too aware of him. Body buzzing with awareness. Even though his heartbeat has calmed down, he still feels on edge. He stares at the fire, willing the glowing embers to take his mind of the vastaya behind him.

“Hey, Keith?”

Which is extremely hard to do when Lance talks, voice deep with drowsiness and close enough to his ear that he can feel his breath.

Keith hums in response.

“Why are you looking for the galra colosseum?” The question is stated with the slow drawl of exhaustion, almost carefree in its delivery. But there’s a sharp clarity there. One that lets him know that Lance is very aware of the heaviness of his question. And edge that sounds almost hesitant. “Who’s this champion you’re looking for?”

Keith feels himself stiffen. Feels his breath rush out of his lungs. Feels a creeping numbness edge into his chest. He had known these questions would come eventually. He had known. He had been prepared to ignore them. He had been prepared to brush them off and walk away. He had been prepared to leave Lance with his questions because it isn’t his fight.

But Lance’s arm is tightening around him in a way that’s so strangely comforting that Keith finds himself relaxing.

Here, blanketed by the night and watched over by the stars, with the warm glow of a campfire and the buzz of wild magic in the air and on his tongue, not being able to see Lance but feeling him there all the same... Keith thinks he can tell him.

More than that. Keith _wants_ to tell him.

“I’ve heard...” He starts, pausing to swallow past the lump in his throat. Lance’s arm squeezes again, and he shuffles closer. Keith can feel the soft pressure of his body against his back, against his wing. It’s comforting. It’s reassuring. “I don’t know how much is true, but I’ve heard whispers of the colosseum. It’s the biggest galra arena, where their prisoners and experiments fight. The Champion— I’ve heard he’s a Marmora vastaya. I’ve heard bits and pieces of what he looks like and I’m— I’m sure it’s him. It has to be him.”

“Who?” Soft and encouraging. A breath against his hair.

“Shiro.” His voice cracks.

Lance is closer. Arm wrapping more around him, pulling him back until legs tuck in behind his own. A nose presses to the back of his neck, nuzzling into his hair. Warm breath on his skin. “Tell me about him.”

“He...” Keith lets out a shuddering breath. Curling in on himself. Curling back into Lance’s warmth. Into his sturdy frame. Using him as an anchor and the night as a shield. “He found me. When I was a child. I don’t remember my parents. I don’t remember why I was left alone. But I was, and I was lost, and I was injured, and Shiro found me. He brought me home. The Marmora tribe took me in. They... gave me a new home. A new family.”

“They sound like good people.”

“They are.”

“It sounds like a good home.”

Keith’s tongue feels thick. “It was.” He stops, letting himself breathe. Lance doesn’t push him. The arm wrapped around his waist retracts, and Keith has to bite back a whine of protest. But his hand merely moves to Keith’s back, rubbing soothing circles beneath his wing. Forearm and wrist brushing against Keith’s feathers and making shivers race down his spine. “The galra destroyed our village centuries ago.”

“I know.” His voice is sad, a whisper in the night. “I remember hearing the stories. I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t be sorry for your loss.” He pauses, fingers running slowly down the notches of Keith’s spine. “This Shiro... he’s important to you.”

It’s not a question, but Keith answers it like one. “Yes.” His fingers press into the front of his tunic, pressing the sharp edges of Shiro’s tooth and his own petrified feather against his sternum.

Lance hums, soft and thoughtful, low and rumbling. Keith’s ears twitch toward the sound, tickling in a way that isn’t unpleasant. In a way that makes him shudder.

“I’m going to help you find Shiro.” He says it with conviction. With the firm nod of a decision fully made. With a clarity and sharpness that leave no room for doubt or regret or trepidation.

It makes Keith’s heart race. It makes his palms feel sweaty. It makes him shake, body tensing in an attempt to stop it. “You don’t know him.” He says it with an exhale as his lungs squeeze. Incredulous. Disbelieving. Wary. Suspicious.

Hopeful.

“No, but I know you.” Lance’s hand slides down his back, wrapping once more around his waist and pulling Keith back against him, mindful of his feathers. His own wing stretches out, draping overtop them both. They bring with them the scent of rain. Of salt and the sea. Of the freshness as a storm threatens the horizon. They’re soft as silk where they brush along the skin of his arm. “And you don’t deserve to be alone.”

It’s said like an afterthought. A whisper. Something more to himself than to Keith. It’s said like a promise.

Keith doesn’t know what to say, so he says nothing. He’s not certain he could if he tried. His mouth feels dry and his throat feels thick. Chest swollen with far too many things to name. So he closes his eyes. He lets himself relax back into Lance’s embrace. Revels in the warmth of his body and the fire. Breathes in the scent of smoke, Lance, and wild magic.

He lets himself be taken by sleep, but not before he has the fleeting thought that perhaps he’s not so alone anymore.

 

* * *

 

_✦ ✧ They will see my dance, then they will know magic's joy... and its fury ✧ ✦_

 

* * *

 

 

Keith has made a mistake.

He knows he’s made a mistake. He knew the moment the fight began that he had made a mistake. He had known the moment he felt the first sting across his flesh and the warmth of his own blood that he had made a mistake. He had known the moment he had been knocked unconscious that he had made a mistake. He knows every moment that he’s made a mistake because his thoughts won’t let him forget it.

He knows that dwelling on it isn’t helping, filling himself with self loathing and regret and frustration. But there’s not much he can do about that when there’s quite literally nothing else to do.

His wrists are chaffed and sore, skin rubbed raw and cracking beneath the ropes that tightly bind them. His head aches, pounding and consuming where the hilt of a sword had knocked him out. It makes his head dizzy when he moves too quickly, and his eyes have a hard time focusing. There are bruises all along his torso. His chest, back, and ribs are smattered with them from where he had been on the receiving end of numerous blows. They hurt terribly. Sharp and jagged pains that make him hiss between his teeth when he moves, only to level out into a dull burn.

He has several cuts along his arms that sting with sweat and dirt. His lip is split and scabbed, feeling swollen and tasting of metal and salt. He can tell from the tenderness beneath one eye that he has a bruise there, too. There’s a cut on his forehead that stings, dried blood itching and matting his hair. There’s a deep gash on his right thigh from where he took the hit from a throwing dagger that how downed him. It hurts, the blood has soaked and dried into his leggings. It stings and oozes when the scab cracks with movement, but at least it’s stopped bleeding for the most part.

His feathers are stained and crooked and a few of them are no doubt bent or snapped, but his wing is fine. And for that, he’s thankful.

His cloak is gone. They ripped it from him and left him feeling far too exposed and far too vulnerable. His tunic is ripped near his collarbone, but the necklaces around his neck remain hidden beneath it. There’s a metal collar closed around his throat, tight enough to chaff but loose enough to let him breathe and sit heavily on his collarbones. It’s enchanted, runes carved into the surface and glowing a sickly purple, keeping his own magic at bay.

They left him with his belt, but his Marmora blade has been removed. The dagger sits in the belt of the leader of this little party of galra, metal looking sad and dull at his side. Keith often glares at it from where he’s tied, and the man’s grin is gleaming and mocking in a way that makes his stomach twist.

He looks away as the nausea rolls past. He’s already thrown up several times, and he can’t afford to lose what little he can keep down. They offer him little food and water as it is.

He observes and catalogues his injuries to pass the time and to keep his spiraling thoughts at bay. He fights and struggles when they try to move him and when they tie him to trees. When they walk, they tug him along, rough enough that he stumbles on shaking legs and has to try desperately not to fall to the dirt. When he does fall, they yank on the ropes until he either stands or is dragged.

When he spits in their face, he earns himself a backhanded slap across the jaw or a fist to the gut. He doesn’t mind too much. The pain keeps him sharp. The anger keeps his determination strong.

At night he finds little rest. The ground is hard and the air grows cold. He’s surrounded by galra, and the further they go, the more the air grows thick with the taint of shadow magic. There’s only so much warmth and comfort he can gain from draping his wing over himself, but at least it’s something.

He finds himself missing the warmth of another wing, feathers thicker and rounder than his own. Softer. Warmer. A touch at his waist and a solid heat at his back.

He lets himself indulge in the memories in the shadows of night in hopes of letting his body rest. But come morning, when the gray dawn chases away the darkness and ushers in a new day, he pushes the thoughts aside.

Survival is what’s important right now. He has to survive. He has to find Shiro.

Yet he can’t help but find himself looking over his shoulder as the band of galra tug him along, wishing for all the world he would catch a glint or gleam of blue.

 

* * *

 

 

Enough time passes that his cuts start to heal and his bruises fade from dark purple to a sickening yellow. He’s thankful that the collar around his neck doesn’t seem to affect his body’s natural accelerated healing. The skin on his wrist, however, remains torn and the wounds fresh from his bounds. There are tears in his leggings and scrapes on his knees that don’t seem to heal quite fast enough. His split lip is opened again every time he glares too hard, with a little too much pride, and one of the galra backhands him for no reason other than they can.

He tries to keep his fighting to a minimum. Once his initial rage subsides, he knows it’s for the best. He need to conserve his strength. He needs to keep vigilant. He needs to watch and wait for an opportunity to escape.

He doesn’t stop looking over his shoulder for flashes of blue and messy chestnut hair. For a glimpse of that dazzling smile. There are times he thinks he can almost hear Lance’s familiar bubbling laugh, deep in the shadows of night when his mind hovers between wakefulness and dreams.

But with every dawn that rises, his bruises fade a little more. They get a little closer to the looming mountain side where the colosseum is nestled. And his hope slips a little further away from his grasp.

 

* * *

 

 

After a four day march along the foothills, headed north along the base of the mountain range, they settle into camp at the edge of the forest. The trees peter off, leaving plenty of space for the large galra party. There’s fifteen of them. Far more than Keith had anticipated when he had attacked.

They’re taking him to the colosseum. He knows because they enjoy rubbing the fact in his face. They want to see him fight for their entertainment. They want to watch him spill blood in a desperate struggle for survival. They want to watch him bleed.

This hadn’t been how he had anticipated finding Shiro.

He’s stuck near the center of the camp, close enough to the fire to be seen but far enough away that he’s not apart of them, nor is he able to feel the fire’s warmth. They’ve driven a pole deep into the earth and tied his bounds to it, keeping him tethered. When he sits, his arms are forced to be lifted. Not quite above his head, but not able to fully hang at his sides. Caught in an awkward and uncomfortable limbo that he knows is on purpose.

He’s dozing, eyelids dropping with exhaustion as he lets himself rest, listening to the general din of muted conversation and grating laughter, when the arrow strikes.

It shoots out from the shadows of the forest’s edge, straight through the fire to dig into the earth on the other side, several wing lengths in front of Keith.

Keith’s eyes snap wide. There’s a shout from the galra. Movement as they all leap to their feet and grab for their weapons. Keith, however, can’t tear his gaze from the arrow. He feels his jaw go slack, heart start to speed up and a buzz rolling across his skin. His breath catches in his throat, anticipation making his body tight. An energy coils in him, twisting and demanding and _alive_ , ready and waiting to be unleashed.

The arrow itself it simple, but there’s a single blue feather tied to its shaft. Blue as the midnight sky at it’s base and blue as a crystalized pond at it’s tip. A swirling blue eye decorating it’s bulk.

And as Keith stares, the swirling blue eye seems to glow. Slowly at first. So subtle he has to blink, certain that his eyes are playing tricks on him. But it glows brighter, spreading out until a pale blue smoke seams to trail from the feather’s edges, whispering into the late evening air.

Some of the galra seem to notice, shouting to the others. Some step closer. Some back away.

Several more arrows shoot from the forest in rapid succession, landing in various places around the camp and between the galra. All digging into the ground. All with a single feather attached to them. They all seem to start to glow, but none so bright at the center one, gleaming white and silver and—

The burst of light is dazzling and bright. Keith turns his head to the side, eyes shutting tight against the glare. He can feel it burning against his eyelids seconds after the initial flash, and he can hear the galra shouting, feet moving, weapons and armor clanking.

He squints against the light, gray dots dancing in the edges of his vision. The light from the feather is fading, but it’s slow. Before it fully goes out, another of the arrows in the camp flares bright, casting crossing shadows and causing Keith to flinch away from it.

He blinks against the light, trying to get his bearings, energy inside of him buzzing with the need to _move_. The wild magic is like a live wire in the air, crackling across his skin as it sparks where the feathers glow.

He knows Lance is here. He has to be. Keith would recognize those feathers anywhere—

 _There_.

Keith has to squint over the fading light of the first feather, but he knows that silhouette. Lance sprints from the forest, bow in hand. He’s briefly illuminated by the fire before he’s leaping over it, wing fluttering behind him, feathers catching the light.

He’s running as soon as he lands, skidding to a stop and dropping to a crouch at Keith’s side just as the third and fourth feather flash one right after another.

His hands are on Keith’s ropes, fingers clawing and struggling to untie the knots. It rubs them against his wrists, and several times Lance’s fingers slip, digging into the tender skin. Keith barely notices the pain. All he can do is stare up at Lance’s face.

His lips are pressed into a small determined frown. Face cast in shadows from the bright light around them. His hair is wild. His feather’s are puffed up and spread. His tail whips around him restlessly. His eyes are glowing, just faintly backlit and causing the blue of his irises to stand out even in the shadows.

Heat sears through Keith, hot and fast. Excitement. Anticipation. Irritation. Fury. Anger at himself. Anger at the galra. Anger at Lance for taking so long, for putting him through all this— it burns through him. Burns his veins. Burns his heart. Makes his chest tight and his lungs ache. Makes every sting and every bruise flare up.

“Where were you?” He doesn’t mean to ask. There’s a time for talking, and now definitely isn’t it. But the question slips past his lips anyway, short and clipped, tightened by the urgency of the situation and urged by the heat that surges through him.

Lance’s eyes flash to his, sharp and cold as ice. His hands still for a moment. “Where have I—“ His lips purse, brows furrowing as he looks back to Keith’s wrists, struggling with them again with a renewed vigor. He’s not gentle about it, and Keith winces as the ropes bite into his wrists. “I’ve been trying to find _you_ — fucking ropes.” He leans in, using his teeth for a moment before pulling back. “You left without warning— _again_ — and I’ve been trying to track you down for a _week_.”

The binds finally loosen, and Keith’s hands slip free. He automatically pulls them to his chest, rubbing the skin around his wrists that’s not torn and broken.

“Why?” Lance asks, cocking his head then, a familiar grin replacing his frown. His eyes still glow. Another feather lights up in a sudden, lasting flash. “Miss me?”

But Keith can barely hear him.

All the heat, all the rage, the spark of fire in him, it’s all gone cold. Fading in a poof of smoke and leaving nothing but ice in his veins. A cold that seeps through him. Right down to the bone. Settling so deep in his core, consuming everything that had kept him going. Leaving him nothing but numb.

And from the numbness, on a breath of frigid breath, rises a realization.

Lance has always been there. Since Keith first saw him playing in that town square months ago, Lance has always been there. No matter where Keith has gone, Lance has found him. No matter what he did to lose him, Lance has always picked up his trail. No matter how many times Keith has left him, has told him to go, Lance has found him.

Lance always finds him.

Keith has never considered the possibility of Lance not being able to find him.

But he’s been pushing Lance away. He’s been leaving on his own. No matter how good Lance is at tailing him, there’s no guarantee. Anything could happen.

Keith could never see him again.

And that’s a thought that sits heavy, cold, and leaden in his gut, making his limbs feel heavy and his lungs unable to draw breath. He feels nauseated. He feels light headed.

The realization comes on the breath of a cold breeze, twisting up through his chest and escaping his lips: he doesn’t like the thought of never seeing Lance again.

“Oookay, snap out of it.” Lance’s voice is suddenly there, fingers snapping in front of Keith’s face. He jerks back, head whipping up and blinking wildly as his eyes focus on Lance’s face. He’s smiling, but there’s a tension there. “Don’t pass out on me yet, we need to get out of here.”

He grabs Keith’s arm and picks him up firmly by the elbow before his hand slips down Keith’s arm, skirting over his wrist to grasp his hand.

Then Lance is tugging him, and they’re sprinting across the camp to the forest. There’s shouting. Noises everywhere. Bright flashes and dancing shadows. Lance weaves him through it, seemingly unaffected by the glare.

They run for the trees and let themselves be swallowed by the forest and the night.

 

* * *

 

 

They run until the light no longer shines through the trees, casting shadows that chase them. They run until the last of the daylight leaves the western horizon. They run until the footfalls behind them fade and the voices cease.

Lance leads him to where he’s left his things. A bag he slings over his back, his lute strapped to it. He keeps his bow in hand, just in case.

And then they run some more.

They only stop when their legs are burning, lungs beg for air, and the moon is high in the sky, peeking through the leaves. They stop at another small copse of trees that form a small ring. A spot where a ley line puddles and the wild magic feels like a soothing balm on his skin, a breath of fresh air in his lungs, and sounds like a silent melody in his ears.

Keith lets himself drop to the ground, sitting with his back against a tree. He leans into it, cradling his hands in his lap, pulling his knees toward him. He lets his head fall back against the rough bark and lets his eyes close.

He listens to Lance drop his bag not too far away. He listens him rummage through the forest for bits of wood and kindling. He listens to him arrange the wood and start a low burning fire. He listens to the ley lines buzz and hum a distant song of ancient power and words unknown.

Then there’s shuffling. Close by. The clearing of a throat. Keith opens his eyes to find Lance next to him, crouched at his side, eyes no longer glowing but somehow catching the firelight all the same. His brows are furrowed, lips pursed into a small concerned frown. He reaches out, tapping a nail lightly on the collar around Keith’s neck. “What’s this?”

“Keeps me from using my magic.” His voice is hoarse and cracked, mouth dry and throat aching.

Lance sits then, crossing his legs and reaching over to pull his bag to his side. He rummages around in it, pulling out a waterskin before passing it to Keith. He takes it gratefully, mumbling a thanks before putting it to his lips and swallowing greedily. He only pulls it away when he’s forced to cough, gasping for breath.

Lance takes it gingerly away from him, setting it aside with a small, soft smile. “Careful now. Don’t need you drowning yourself.”

Keith’s glare is half-assed and halfhearted.

Lance ignores him, flaring out his wing and twisting where he sits, fingers running over and through his feathers. Not hesitant, but not certain either. Considering. Keith watches his long fingers shift through the sea of blue, wondering how soft it might be. How it might feel. Lance’s feathers look so different from his own, and he longs to touch.

Instead, his fingers curl into fists in his lap.

Then, a decision made, his fingers pluck to feathers from his wing, quick and decisive. He turns to Keith then, a feather in each hand, tips of them held like tools between deft fingers. He feels the crackle of energy around Lance’s hands, the gleam of his feathers as the magic takes, the swirl of the ley line beneath the earth, the freckles of a faint blue glow in Lance’s irises.

He leans forward, fingers gently adjusting the collar on Keith’s neck until the lock faces him, and then he sets to work.

Keith can’t see what he’s doing, but he can see his face. He can see the slight pinch of concentration between his brows. He can see the single minded focus in his eyes. He can see the way the tip of his tongue peeks out to press against his lip.

“I didn’t know you knew how to pick locks.”

Lance’s hands pause for just a moment, eyes flickering up to meet Keith’s. There’s a crinkle along the edges, a slight quirk to his lips that might be a smile. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.” There’s a wistfulness about it. A playfulness. But there’s also a melancholy that nibbles at Keith’s heart. Lance’s fingers begin to move again, his feathers brushing the line of Keith’s jaw. There’s a spark of mischief in his eyes as he says, “I never did like closed doors very much. I like it even less when people tell where not to go.”

Keith huffs, a brief roll of his eyes before he looks away, but he can feel a smile tugging at his lips. Lance is both full of surprises and predictably himself. It’s a strange combination that keeps Keith on his toes in a way that’s comforting.

There’s a soft click, followed by a prideful. “There!” The collar opens, and Keith pulls it from his neck and tosses it into the forest while Lance carefully and gingerly returns his feathers to his wing. “Next time try not to get captured.” There’s a pause, followed by a curious, “How _did_ you get captured?”

Keith keeps his eyes on his lap, lifting his wrists to access the damage. The skin is rubbed raw, cracked and bleeding. The only wounds that are still remotely fresh. They sting in the open air, but it’s a sting that feels like freedom.

“I saw a passing patrol of galra and attacked them.”

“ _You_ attacked _them?_ Keith, there were nearly twenty of them.”

Keith hunches a little more, head ducked to hide his eyes beneath his hair as he mumbles, “There were only five when I attacked them. I didn’t realize there were more.”

“You didn’t bother to wait and watch to find out, either, did you?”

Keith purses his lips tight and says nothing, but it’s answer enough.

Lance sighs, louder and longer than what is probably necessary. “How long did they have you for?”

“Four days.”

“How many injuries?”

“I’m fine.”

“Keith.”

“ _I’m fine._ We have to go back and find them tomorrow.”

“We have to— _What?_ ”

Keith sighs, closes his eyes, a deep exhale leaving his lungs. His body deflates with it. “They still have my knife. They took it when they captured me, and I need to get it back—“

“No, they don’t.”

Keith lifts his head, eyes opening as he finally looks at Lance. He’s still close. Sitting at his side with a small, lopsided smirk on his lips and a gleam in his eyes. “What?”

“I said they don’t have it.” He reaches behind him, pulling something from his belt. Keith watches, lips parted and eyes wide in dumbfounded awe as his Marmora blade gleams in the dim firelight. Lance flips it in the air, gingerly catching it by the blade and holding the hilt out to Keith. “You do.”

Keith takes it with shaking fingers. “How did you—?”

Lance scoffs, that gleam still bright in his eyes. “Unlike _you_ , I stayed around and watched for a while when they set up camp. Wanted to get an eye for what we were dealing with before I ran in there and saved the damsel.” Keith huffs, which only makes Lance’s smirk widen. “I saw one guy with your dagger at his belt. Made sure to pick it off of him as we ran out of there.”

Keith looks down, fingers curling around the hilt of his dagger. “Thank you.”

“No problem. Now give me your hands.”

“What?”

Lance holds out his hands, making grabbing motions with his fingers. His face is mock stern, full of impatience that doesn’t seem genuine as he says, “Gimme. Come on.”

Keith sheaths his knife, hesitantly holding out his hands. Lance’s fingers wrap around his arms, pulling them toward him and forcing Keith to twist, facing him more fully. He holds Keith gently by the forearms, lifting his arms so he can see his wrists, head moving and tilting to see them at all angles by the firelight.

There’s so much concentration on his face, but it’s a gentle sort. Nothing harsh or sharp. There’s a caring there. An attentive awareness. There’s no blame when he stares at the wounds on Keith’s wrists. No pity. Merely a rumbling anger, but more than that, a balming sympathy.

He hums thoughtfully as he lowers Keith’s arms. “I’m sorry I was late.” He says, a whisper to the wind. The rustle of leaves in the night.

Keith feels goosebumps rise on his flesh. A twisting knot of guilt that feels like lead in his stomach. He’s once again left with the thought that Lance might have never found him. He might not have seen Lance again. The air leaves his lungs, sucked out into the shadows, and he feels like he can’t get it back.

“It’s fine.” He breathes, head down as he stares at their hands. “I’m just glad you came at all.”

Lance’s hands move down his arms, hovering over his wrists. He holds them them, as gentle as he might, touch light and fleeting. It stings in places, and Keith holds his breath, uncertain of what to expect or what he’s doing. But he doesn’t pull away.

Lance holds his wrists gently in his hands. Holds them between them. His eyes close and he leans forward, pressing his forehead to Keith’s knuckles. And then softly, gently, he begins to sing.

It starts as a hum. A rumble in his throat. A slow and lilting melody. There are no words. He doesn’t open his mouth to form them. He builds the song with merely his voice and his magic.

The air seems to swirl around them, tugging at their hair and at their feathers. The pooling magic in the earth shifts, echoing out it’s own song. Not one they can hear, but one they can _feel_. It weaves a harmony with Lance’s, magic dipping and mingling and weaving together.

His hands begin to glow, soft and white and blue. Swirling like clouds in the sky. A fog around his fingers. It’s powerful. It’s soothing. It’s steady as the current in a river or the tides of the sea. Keith feels the energy drift across his skin in pushes and pulls, goosebumps rising on his flesh.

Lance’s touch turns cool, to cold, to rigid. An icy touch that doesn’t hurt, but soothes away the heat of his wound and the burn of his pain.

And when the magic fades, seeping back into Lance’s core and the earth itself. When the music drifts away on the wind. The sting in his wrists is gone.

Lance lifts his head from Keith’s knuckles, but it remains bowed, eyes on their hands. He doesn’t let go, nor does Keith pull away.

“When’re you going to admit it?” It’s not accusing, nor is it sad. He sounds tired. Defeated.

Keith feels a lump forming in his throat, choking his voice even as he forces himself to ask, “Admit what?”

When Lance meets his eyes, there’s an intensity there. A blaze of something that sends lightning crackling through Keith’s core. There are tired lines around his eyes. There’s a slight frown to his lips. But his eyes hold Keith captive and refuse to let him go. “That you like having me around.”

Keith’s mouth is dry, heart beating a sharp staccato in his chest. He can’t lie. Not when Lance is looking at him like that. But there’s a truth in there that he’s not yet ready to face. “I don’t need your help.”

Nothing about his expression chances, voice calm and steady as a stream as he says, “I know.”

Keith tries again, voice cracking at the edges. “I can do this without you.”

“I know.”

His tongue feels thick. He feels a burning behind his eyes. “I can take care of myself.”

“I know.”

“Traveling is easier without you.”

Finally, there’s a crack. A slight upturn to his lips that’s seen more in the crinkling at the corners of his eyes. “Debatable, but go on.”

“I don’t need you.” And it hurts to say, but it’s the truth. He doesn’t need Lance. He never has.

There’s a sadness in Lance’s smile. “I know.” He reaches out then, releasing one of Keith’s wrists to take him gently by the chin, tilting his face up so Keith can’t look away. He cups his jaw, thumb caressing his cheek in a way that has shivers running down his spine, warmth building in his chest, and his breath catching in his throat. “But that’s not what I asked. I asked when you were going to admit that you _like_ having me around.”

And there it is. There he is batting away Keith’s distractions. Shoving away the truths Keith throws at him and dives right for the truth that Keith is desperately trying to avoid.

“This isn’t your fight.” There’s a new edge in his voice. He can hear it. Desperation. The softness of a plea.

“I know.”

“You could get hurt.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to be here.”

“I know.” His head tilts then, that familiar crooked smile on his lips that has Keith’s stomach twisting in knots. “But I want to be.”

Keith closes his eyes. Closes them because he can’t bear to meet Lance’s gaze anymore. It’s too intense. It rips right through him, leaving him open and bare and vulnerable in ways that Keith isn’t used to. In ways that are as exhilarating and thrilling as they are terrifying.

He breaths in deep, holding the air in his lungs until it starts to burn. Until the pressure builds and builds and builds. Until he can’t hold it anymore, and it comes rushing out of him before he can stop it. It rattles out of his throat, dragging with it one shaking word: “Okay.”

Lance’s voice is breathless, and when Keith opens his eyes, Lance’s are wide. Lips gone lax before tugging up into a hopeful smile. His entire body is pulled up with it, feathers on his wing puffing up and back straightening. “Okay?”

“Okay.” He says, firmer, more resolute. He refuses to smile, but he thinks Lance can see it anyway.

He grins, leaning forward and tugging Keith’s jaw until their foreheads touch. It’s warm. It’s close. It’s intimate in ways that Keith doesn’t know how to deal with but doesn’t seem to mind. Breaths mingling, eyes filled with nothing but blue, Lance smiles, and in a voice low and teasing, he says, “Does this mean we can cuddle again?”

And Keith can _feel_ Lance’s brows waggle against his own.

He rolls his eyes, shoving Lance’s shoulders hard until he topples over. “Don’t push your luck.”

Halfway through the night, when the chill from the air seeps between his feathers and through the ground, when the fire gets low and the warmth fades, Keith can hear the voices of galra and the shadows of loneliness creeping in the echoes of his mind.

He ends up clenching his jaw, steeling his nerves, and crawls around the fire on hands pulled into fists. Lance is awake when he reaches him, holding out an arm and his wing as Keith crawls close to nestle against his chest, into his warmth. Lance’s arm falls around him, wing falling atop Keith’s. After a moment of hesitation, Keith wraps his arm around Lance’s waist. He can feel the man’s chest shake with a breathy chuckle.

“Shut up.”

“I wasn’t going to say a word.”

 

* * *

 

_✦ ✧ Our magic is a fury. It is a song you cannot resist ✧ ✦_

 

* * *

 

 

The colosseum is the largest arena Keith has seen. Nestled onto a perching cliff higher up the mountain, it looms. Carved from stone and decorated with gems that seem to glow with dark, pulsing energy. Even from this distance, Keith can feel the shadow magic choking the air.

It’s thick here, clogging up the ley lines and tainting the natural magic in the earth. He knows from maps left in Marmora hideouts that there’s a few temples around here, nestled into the mountains. He has a feeling they’ve long since been corrupted, but that’s a fight for another day.

At least here, on the edges of the galra claimed territory, he can still feel the untouched, cleaner wild magic from the forest. He can feel it like the hint of a blue sky when there’s nothing but storm up ahead. A peek of dawn in a periless night. A breath of a fresh freeze in air clogged with smoke.

He feels the pleasant buzz at his back. In the earth beneath his feet. He can feel it edge through his veins, slipping in alongside his own inherent magic, singing a soothing harmony.

He focuses on that rather than the slimy, thick taint of tar that creeps in the distance.

The colosseum is a looming and ominous construction. A place where hundreds if not thousands of galra come to watch the top prisoners and creations fight. Where they crave the sight of blood soaking into sand and death hot in the air. But while the colosseum is imposing, it is not their target.

Their target rests further down the mountain, nestled at it’s base, close to the creeping forest line. The colosseum is grand enough that its prison is kept separate from the main construction. From what Keith has learned through pieces of gossip and whispers, it’s not just prisoners who fight in this arena. The galra themselves fight for honor, competition, and to solve disputes. As such, they keep their prisoners separate, only to grace the grand building on days they deem it so.

After nabbing a couple galra on a patrol, and after some threats by Lance thinly veiled by a false smile, backed up by the very obvious threat of Keith’s daggers, the got the information they needed.

There are no fights scheduled for today, thus the colosseum above should be empty and all the prisoners should be kept in the compound below.

They managed to get a brief layout and scope of security before the galra would say no more. They dispatched of him quickly and swiftly for his usefulness, but upon removing his mask, they could see how young he truly was. The taint of shadow magic’s corruption was weak on him. Someone newly turned. Newly seduced through promises of power and strength.

The young are easily blinded by the corrupt as long as it glitters like gold.

Lance hadn’t looked too happy about the discovery, lips twisted into a frown and shadows in his eyes. So Keith had suggested they bury him properly, and perhaps the spirits would take kindly to his soul. Lance had smiled at that, and that had been enough to chase away all doubt from his heart at his own suggestion.

Now they wait in the shadows of the forest, perched up on a ledge where the terrain began to climb up the mountain. The prison is below. A large building with peeking roofs, open courtyards, and square designs. It sits back against the mountain, no doubt opening up to tunnels that lead up through the rock to the colosseum above for easy prisoner transfer.

A tall wooden wall surrounds the vulnerable sides of the compound, cornered by guard towers. Sharpened logs are dug deep into the ground, pointing outward threateningly. Several guards are posted on the towers and walk along the top of the walls, but it’s clear they aren’t on any sort of high alert.

Keith supposes they have no reason to be. So few people dare to openly oppose them, and fewer would come this deep into the Ionian wilds to do so.

“Don’t forget the plan.” Lance says, crouched low and eyes on the prison below them. He’s still, a hard glint in his eyes, sharp as a blade, but there’s a restless energy about him. His wing is puffed up, rising higher than it should with feathers spread and ruffled. His tail swishes back and forth behind him.

Keith isn’t sure he’s ever seen Lance like this, but then again, he’s never really seen Lance before a fight.

“We have a plan?” Keith stares at him then, features schooled into confused innocence.

Lance looks at him then, eyes wide and blinking owlishly in momentary surprise. His expression quickly flattens, giving Keith an unamused stare. His lips purse slightly into a pout, and his eyes search Keith’s face as if he isn’t quite sure if Keith is serious.

Keith rolls his eyes, a small smirk quirking at the edges of his mouth. “I’m kidding.”

Lance’s eyes narrow a fraction, pout exaggerating in an attempt to hide his smile. “You better be.” He grumbles, turning away to stretch his wing out beside him. He twists, fingers running lightly over them, dipping between each one like water.

Not for the first time, Keith wishes he could touch. He knows from the nights they’ve spent huddled against the cold that they’re soft and surprisingly heavy, but that’s not nearly enough to sate his curiosity. Lance’s feathers are wider than his own, rounder at the end and fluffier. Keith’s are narrow and sleek, perfect for his daggers. Lance’s look far more inviting.

He chooses a feather with extreme care and deliberation. Far more than Keith does before plucking for his daggers.

He pulls it from his wing with a sharp and quick twist before letting his wing drop. Turning back to Keith, he scoots closer, taking his hand and gently placing the feather in his palm before closing his fingers over the base of it.

He doesn’t pull away. Instead he holds Keith’s hand in both of his own. Slender fingers encompassing him in a warm embrace. Tanned skin a stark contrast against his own. When he meets Keith’s gaze, there’s a seriousness there that makes Keith still. Makes the breath die in his throat. “Remember how to use it?”

Mouth dry, he can do nothing besides purse his lips, nodding once. Quick and concise.

Lance’s look softens, voice barely above a breath as he says, “Be careful.”

“I should be saying that to you.”

Then that spark returns. That mischievous glint in the depths of his ocean blue eyes. The tug of a smirk, cocky and confident, at his lips. The tilt of his head that makes his hair look even wilder. His entire body seems to relax with it, falling back into a poise of ease. “I’m always careful.”

And with a wink and a flourish, he’s gone. Slipping from their perch and through the shadows. A dark streak of a storm in the dimming light of the setting sun. Fluid and graceful as he skirts the trees, leaping over rocks and roots, wing and tail trailing out behind him and moving like silk.

Keith watches him pause, poised and coiled. Then the guards turn, attention elsewhere, and Lance springs. He darts from the forest line, streaking across the open space, keeping to the long shadows cast by the mountains. He leaps as he reaches the spikes, landing atop one for just a moment, leg bending and wing floating back down just before he launches himself higher.

Clawed nails grabbing the wood of the wall, taloned feet digging into the bark, he scrambles over the top of it.

Keith only has to wait mere moments before he hears the first shouts.

Without waiting, he’s darting after him, following in Lance’s wake. He moves further along, closer to where the compound meets the natural stone of the mountain before scaling the wall. By the time he clambers over it, the alarms are sounding, shouts ringing out in the air.

But with a bright blue peacock of a man laughing and darting through the open courtyard below, no one notices the shadow of purple and maroon slip into the prison.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith ducks around a corner as a flurry of guards storm by, and he waits until the thunder of their steps recede before peeking out into the hallway. With the coast clear, he rushes forward, feet silent on the stone floor.

The alarms blare around him, echoing loud in the halls. He can hear the distant shouts, muted through stone walls, and he hopes Lance is alright.

He has to trust he is.

He has to keep pushing forward.

The halls are easy enough to navigate, even with what little information he has to go on. He’s broken into and out of enough galra prisons to know his way. They’re not known for their ingenuity and creativity with floor plans.

It’s strange, though, to sprint through the halls like this. To openly run and not have to sneak around patrols or fight his way through. Most of the halls are empty, which is strange and eerie, and had it not been for Lance, he would be on edge because of it.

But as it stands, he does have Lance. A partner. A friend. He’s doing what he does best, drawing in attention, to give Keith an opportunity to do what he does best. And it’s an opportunity he shouldn’t waste.

He sees the shadows ahead, stretching around a corner. Hears the voices, dim over the blaring alarm. He keeps running, reaching for his wing and plucking feathers. One guard rounds the corner, and Keith throws out an arm. Three arrows sink into his chest, surprised shout trailing off into a gurgle.

Keith jumps when he reaches him, planting a foot on the guard’s chest and shoving his dying momentum backwards. He lands on the body, head whipping around at a wordless shout.

Two more guards in the adjacent hall.

He dives forward, ducking and sweeping low as one raises his crossbow. Keith grabs his arm as he spins around him, forcing the arm to twist around the man’s back. With the guard between himself and the fallen body, he lets his magic crackle and burn at his fingertips.

The feathers pull themselves free from the fallen man’s chest, streaks of white hot energy aimed right for Keith’s palm.

There’s a choked gasp, and the man he holds stiffens. With the feathers back in his hand, he lets the body fall.

A crossbow bolt whizzes past him, and he feels the searing heat of it as it skims past his upper arm, cutting deep before clanging against the wall. He grits his teeth, shoulder twisting back with the force and surprise of the blow. The momentum swings his other arm forward, and he haphazardly throws the feather daggers in his hand.

Two miss, but the third sinks deep in the third guard’s gut. She grunts, staggering before falling over. The crossbow clatters to the ground, and her hand goes to the darkening spot, dark red staining her fingers.

Keith gives her a far more merciful death before he moves on.

He finds the cells right where he expects them to be. Most of the galra have answered the alarms, leaving the cells themselves loosely guarded. It’ll be the easiest extraction he’s ever encountered.

He grabs one guard around the corner, slitting their throat quickly. His dagger is imbedded in the second before the first body falls.

The cells themselves, it seems, are sealed with magic. He’s seen it before. It keeps locks from being picked. The cells themselves are walled with stone and bared with iron. But the locks are shadow magic.

Thankfully, Keith is not imprisoned. His own magic is not suppressed. And he knows how to override the locks.

He runs to the first cell along the corridor, peering through the bars as best he can. Bodies hover in the shadows, pulled away from the faint light. He squints into the darkness. He can see their shapes. He can see the animal characteristics of the vastaya.

“Shiro?” The name falls from his lips unbidden, voice cracking. He steps forward, grabbing the bars tight. He feels his knees shaking. His voice is a whisper. It’s a plea. It’s a hope threatening to shatter. “Shiro?” He calls louder, until his voice echoes in the cell.

“Who are you?” A voice asks, hesitant and wary. A shadow peels from the wall, taking shape. A vastaya with antlers, cracked and broken. A bandaged side. Hooves clinking softly on the stone as he approaches the bars, hunched and cautious. There’s a glint in his dark eyes as he steps into the dim light. One that eases the weary lines dug deep into his face.

Hope.

“Help.” Keith says simply, brow furrowing and lips pursing into a slight scowl. He hates seeing them like this. His people. From other tribes, perhaps, but still his people. Battered and bruised and beaten down until they’re mere shades of their former glory, pride stripped from them and replaced by fear and defeat. “I’m getting you out of here.”

He puts his hand to the flat surface of the lock. The metal is smooth and cold. A tremor of energy buzzing beneath the surface. He closes his eyes, breathing deep and focusing on his core. The taint of corrupted magic is everywhere, thick in the air like smoke. It sticks to his lungs and hangs on his skin. He can feel it humming through the lock panel beneath his hand, dark and twisted, leaping and jumping and curling toward him and the allure of his magic, pure and untouched.

He reaches deep into himself, into the core of wild magic that makes up his being. A gift from his ancestors. Part of who he is. The well of himself that connects him to the land, the spirit realm, and everything in between.

His magic bends to his call, crackling hot and sparking bright. It surges through his veins, burning at his skin and warding off the shadows that cling to him. He feels a pulse from deep in the earth, an answering hum from the ley lines far, far below. It’s faint. It’s a desperate plea. It’s a recognition of what he is and a cry for help. A distant and faint pulsing of wild magic that is starving and choking beneath the corruption.

It makes something in him ache, a deep seeded sorrow that he can’t shake. He sends a silent apology, a whispered prayer, and a quiet promise to purge the temples another time. For now, he needs to save these people.

He focuses his magic to his hand, feeling it crackle along his skin like dancing flames and twisting lightning. It surges hot and bright, a flare and a wildfire directed into the lock.

He hears the silent scream of the shadow magic. The hiss and screech that he can _feel_ against his skin. He can feel it writhe beneath the metal, feels it wrestle and twist with his own magic. Desperate to consume, but overpowered and fearful. He feels the moment his own magic wins out. The surge burning away the shadows.

And the lock beneath his palm clicks.

He jerks the barred door open, leaving it ajar as he shouts. “Get everyone. Gather in the hall. We’re getting out of here.”

“What of the guards?” He hears a woman’s voice ask, already a tentative stream of vastaya stepping into the hall, blinking against the light and staring at him with wide, fearful eyes.

“The guards are busy.” He says, already turning down the hall, hurrying to the next cell and putting his hand to the lock to repeat the process. “I can handle any we come across. Be prepared to run.”

He sends another magical surge of fire through the lock, overwhelming and dispersing the shadow magic within. He can feel the bite back. The sting on his palm as the corrupted magic lashes out at him wildly.

“Shiro?” He shouts as the lock clicks and he swings the door open. “Shiro!” There’s no reply. He hurries to the next cell. Then the next. He opens each lock with ease, ignoring the sting of his flesh each time. There’s no answer to his calls. Some seem to recognize him through reputation alone, but none of them are Shiro.

His eyes rake through the crowd gathering in the hall, over the ears and horns and tails and claws, fur and feathers and scales. Looking for any sign of a Marmora vastaya. He sees none. There are none.

“Shiro?” He rips open the last door. A heavily armored cell at the back. No bars. Just stone walls and a wooden door with the same magic lock. His heart hammers in his chest as he steps into the dark cell.

But it’s empty, and his heart sinks.

“ _Shiro!_ ” He turns, weaving his way through the huddling and scared prisoners, pushing past bodies that are bruised and bloody and far too thin. Their clothes ripped and dirtied. Hair matted and wild. “Shiro!” He shouts into the crowd. “Has anyone seen a man named Shiro?”

There’s so many of them. Tall and short. Young and old. They crowd the hall, air thick with the smell of their bodies. He shoves through them, moving toward the head of the hall once more, eyes wild and flickering over a sea of faces he doesn’t recognize.

“The champion! Has anyone seen the champion? Where is he? _Where is he?_ ” His voice is cracking, desperation making his breath come short.

“The champion?”

He whirls around, causing several of the vastaya to flinch back. His eyes fixate on a woman. Feathered, but not Lhotlan like him. Her feathers drape off her arms, twisted and broken and ruffled. Her face is lined with soft, fur like feathers, body mostly covered by wrappings and rags. Her feet are clawed. Fingers taloned. Her eyes are large and irises dark.

“You know of the champion?” He takes a step forward.

She holds her ground, chin lifted high as she meets his wild gaze. There’s a spark there. A strength even when her body looks fit to give out. It’s a pride. It’s a strength. She hasn’t been broken, and that gives him hope. The galra can try, but they can’t break his people. Not completely. Not wholly.

“The champion was to be transferred a week or so ago. We heard— we heard from the guards gossiping that his escort was attacked. He was taken— captured— but we don’t know by who.”

“It was rebels.” Croaked another voice, dry and cracking, but rising in volume. Urgency. Eager to share.

Keith whipped around, pinning a lizard vastaya with piercing eyes. “Marmora?”

He shook his head. “I don’t know. They said nothing about Marmora. But I heard them say they chased them south. To a port. He hasn’t returned, so he might have gotten free.”

“Shiro might be free.” Keith repeats the words, a whisper that feel foreign on his tongue. A rush of something cool and numbing surges through him, leaving him still and lightheaded.

Shiro was freed.

Or captured by others.

Rebels, possibly.

Either way, odds were he isn’t with the galra anymore.

Most importantly, _he’s alive_.

A hand comes down on his shoulder, gentle but firm. He turns to find the same man with antlers staring at him, lips pursed into a small frown. Eyes intense as they search Keith’s face. He’s younger than Keith realized, but the wear of the arena has left him looking twice his age.

“You’re the Raven of Marmora, aren’t you?”

Keith stands a little taller, nodding his head. “I am.”

Right. He has a job to do now. He has a duty. Shiro isn’t here, but that doesn’t matter in this moment. What matters are the people who _are_ here. He needs to get them out first and quickly. He needs to move before something happens to Lance.

He can sort out this new lead on Shiro later. For now, he needs to keep moving forward.

“Follow me!” He shouts, pushing through the crowd to the head of the hallway, raising his voice so he can be heard. “Be quick. Be as silent as you can. Leave no one behind.”

Keith leads the way. The mass of prisoners move slowly but steadily, and he darts ahead. He only comes across a few more guards, who are disposed of quickly. This little security puts him on edge. He usually has to be more subtle than this. He usually has to fight his way out. This time, there’s nearly no one wandering the halls.

The alarms still sound beyond the stone walls, and each sound grates against his skin.

He has to remind himself that his job being easier means Lance is succeeding in his. He can’t dwell on the thought of Lance failing. That’s not an option. Lance has never failed, and he won’t start now.

Still, the quicker Keith can get the prisoners out, the quicker Lance can leave, too.

They make it to a side door, skirting past the main courtyards where Lance assured him he would keep the guards. The vastaya quint against the fading light, pausing in the fresh air as if it’s shocking to breathe. And, perhaps, it is. Given how long they might have been in their cells. He doesn’t let them relish in it, however. He hurries them along, directing them to dart across the clearing and into the forest beyond.

He only follows when he’s sure the last of them have made it out, helping a few of the injured hobble into the shadows past the treeline. He finds the ones who seem to be in charge, the stronger vastaya with a knack for commanding respect and keeping a level head. He directs them eastward and southward. Tells them to hurry while they still have a head start.

Then he turns, hovering at the treeline. He can see the compound below. He can see guards in the towers and along the walls, armed with bows. He can hear the alarms and the shouts. But he can’t hear the words. And he can’t see into the courtyard.

He pulls Lance’s feather from his belt, holds the base of it pinched between a finger and his thumb as he holds it out in front of him. It’s beautiful. Shimmering and silken and soft in the light cast from the setting sun.

His magic crackles at his fingertips. Hot and molten. It surges into the feather that isn’t his own, creating a catalyst of bright white light that flows down the stem before spreading out. When the entire feather glows, faintly blue and silver, pulsing like a timer, Keith throws it into the air.

It shoots up high, pausing at the height of it’s ascent. It hovers in the air, pulsing brighter and brighter. He can feel the magic pouring off of it in waves, strong and stronger. A tide coming up the beach.

And then all at once it flashes, bright and blinding.

Keith puts his back to a tree, curling away from the light and shielding his eyes. When he opens them again, the shadows are darker, gray dots dancing at the edges of his vision. He looks up, but the feather itself has dissolved to ash, scattered into the wind.

He fixes his gaze on the compound below, holds his breath, and he waits.

And waits.

And waits.

And waits.

He counts the time in agonizing seconds.

Each one pulsing past with the beat of his heart and sliding past with the thickness of honey. The seconds build into minutes. Slow and steady and painful. He feels each moment stretch. Feels each second tick. Feels it as his lungs ache and his heart bruises his ribs and the restlessness of adrenaline in his veins make his body vibrate.

He waits.

And waits.

And waits.

But the alarms continue to sound. The shouting continues. And still there is no sign of blue feathers and a charming smile.

“We have to go.”

Keith turns to find a small group of vastaya there in the shadows of the trees, watching him. The woman with the feathers. The man with the antlers. A few others he doesn’t recognize, but all of whom have that spark and thirst for freedom that lends a wild strength.

“Not yet.” Keith turns back to the compound.

“What are you waiting for?” He doesn’t know who asks. He doesn’t care.

“He’s still down there.”

“Who?”

“My partner.” It makes his heart ache to say it, but it’s not an unpleasant ache. It’s one accompanied by the fluttering of butterflies and a breathlessness that doesn’t leave him feeling winded.

And just like that, he realizes that his decision is already made.

He turns back to the others and finds it strange that they’re watching him, waiting for direction. “He’s still down there, and I’m not leaving him behind. You take the others and go. You can only move as quickly as your injured. Put as much distance between yourself and this place as you can.”

“What about you?”

Keith feels a smirk tug at the edges of his lips as he backs away from the trees. “I have an idiot to rescue. We’ll catch up to you. Now go!”

He spins on his heel and darts down the slope from the forest, moving across the clearing on light feet, feeling the wind tug at his hair and shift through his feathers as they trail out behind him. He leaps at the wooden spikes, landing atop one and bending his legs, before redirecting his momentum and launching himself upward.

He grabs the edge of the wall, fingers curling tight as his feet land against the wood, nails digging into hold him in place. He lifts himself enough to peer over the edge, finding an archer directly in front of him.

He pulls himself over the wall silently, slinking up behind him and pulling out his dagger. He slits his throat quickly, hand over his mouth to muffle his shout as he lowers the body to the ground. A few other archers along the wall top notice him, and he sheaths his dagger, pulling out his feathers. They find their marks quickly.

As the bodies fall, he turns toward the half wall, creeping close and crouching low to peer down into the courtyard below.

His heart stutters and his breath hitches in his throat when he sees Lance.

He’s at the center of the courtyard. On his knees. His feathers look crooked and twisted, a few arrows buried between them. He looks battered and bruised. His clothes are torn and dirtied. There’s a bruise on his jaw and a cut on his forehead, causing a sickly streak of red to run down his face.

His body sags. slumped into the dirt. One shoulder hangs further down than the other, hunched. A streak of blood running down that arm. His hands rest idle on the ground at his sides.

But still he smiles.

His body and posture are defeated and docile. Weary and spent.

But still he smiles.

There’s a faint glow about his feathers. They shine bright in the fading light. A swirl of energy that’s near imperceivable around them, coiling and curling into the air with the faint impression of smoke.

He’s surrounded on all sides by guards, spears and swords pointed at him. He’s pinned by the sights of the archers along the walls and in the towers. There’s a druid standing in front of him, mask hiding their face, shadow magic curling off of them and pulsing in choking waves.

But Lance holds his chin high, meeting their gaze with blue irises that shine, backlit with magic of his own.

And still he smiles.

Cocky. Confident. A smirk that is unshakable, even in the face of defeat. Even in the face of imminent pain, punishment, and likely death.

He smiles. Teeth gleaming. Eyes bright. Hair matted and messy. Wing flared and feathers broken and ruffled.

He looks as wild as magic.

Beautiful and fierce.

Untamable and uncontrollable.

A force. An ocean. A storm.

The druid holds out a hand, dark energy swirling around their clawed hand. It tenses, and Lance’s body jerks. He’s smile falters as his mouth falls open, eyes widening as his body seems to pull up slightly. His fingers claw at his throat. Face reddening as if he can’t breathe, the glow of his magic fading from his eyes—

Then the druid’s body jerks as reddish purple feathers dig into their back, slicing through their cloak and digging deep into flesh and bone.

Lance’s body sags instantly, eyes wide with confusion.

“Lance!”

His gaze snaps to Keith as he launches himself over the half wall and down to the courtyard below. He rolls when he hits the ground, pushing himself back to his feet as they dig into the dirt. He sprints through the dumbfounded guards, already pulling the feathers back to his hand.

The druid staggers to the side, away from Lance, turning to see him. He can feel the building of power. The surging and curling of shadow magic. He can feel it thicken in the air like tar.

He ignores it. Right now, it can’t touch him.

Wild magic pulses from his core, singing to the scattered and distant remains of untainted magic in the air and in the earth. He feels it singing through his veins. A harmony that lends him strength. A song that pulses with each heartbeat to guide it. A melody that builds, and builds, and builds. Until his veins burn and his skin crackles. Until sparks dance across his skin and flames dance across his feathers.

He passes the galra in a blur. They shout. They move. They turn their weapons. It’s all too late. He’s already past them. Darting through them. Straight for Lance. Eyes focused on Lance. Watching as those stormy eyes light up.

Confusion. Surprise. Amusement. Hope.

Fierce and wild as a new wave of strength comes over him.

“Give me a boost!”

It takes Lance a second to process that, but Keith doesn’t slow. Trusts that he’ll know what to do.

Then Lance shifts, getting his feet under him, poised low, body coiled. There’s a tension there. A readiness. Muscles coiled tight and ready to spring. He waits, eyes hard and locked onto Keith’s. He laces his fingers together, cupping them open and waiting.

When Keith reaches him, he steps into his hand.

There’s a brief moment where time seems to slow. Before his momentum shifts and before Lance moves. They’re close. Keith crouches in Lance’s grip. All he can see are blue eyes and a gleaming smile.

“Give ‘em hell.” He whispers, voice cracked and raw but lilting at the edges with a mischievous laugh.

Keith just smirks, feels it curl his lips as the wild magic burns in his veins.

Then Lance stands, launching Keith into the air as Keith leaps from his hands. He soars high and fast, wind whistling past his ears, tearing through his hair and his feathers.

At the height of his leap, his body slows. Time slows. He hangs in the air as a second ticks past. He feels gravity tugging at his body, but for the moment, it holds no sway over him. He hovers aloft, far above the courtyard. The energy pulses through him. Song coming to a crescendo. The world is brighter. Sounds louder. Smells sharper. His skin is buzzing, humming, alight with fire and flame.

He feels his hair drift around him, untouched by the wind or gravity. His wing drifts out, feathers spread. For a moment, just a moment, he hands motionless. Weightless. Burning from the inside and caught in time.

Then his song reaches its climax.

He spins, wing flaring out, as the magic building inside him bursts forth. Feathers fly from him, dislodged without the need to be plucked. Hot and molten, sharp as steel. They streak from him in all directions. All at once. A burst of daggers that rain down among the galra in the courtyard.

He hears them scream. He sees them collapse. He hears the weapons fall. He sees the sickly dark blood soak into the ground.

And then he falls.

As he does, he spins, wing curling around him, glowing bright and hot. Sparks crackle as the feathers rip from flesh and dirt, from armor and bone. Magenta and violet streaks shoot through they air toward him once more, and he feels the hot pinpricks as the feathers imbed themselves back into his wing.

More screams as the feathers rip through more flesh and the surviving bodies as they’re pulled back.

Lance catches him. Holding him close in his arms, cradled to his chest as he falls to his knees. Blood stains his face. His lip is swollen and a bruise darkens along his jaw.

But still he smiles.

“Have I ever told you how amazing you are?”

A skip of his heart. A hitch in his breath. A new heat rising along his skin. Keith pushes out of his arms, scrambling to his feet before pulling Lance to his. “You can tell me later. Let’s go.”

They run. They leap over fallen galra and skirt around those who still cling to life by a thread. They dodge arrows that rain from above, and Lance manages to deflect those that might have hit. They scramble over the wall once more, darting across the clearing and into the sanctity of the trees.

And still they run. Ignoring their aches and pains. Driven by the magic pulsing through their veins and the feeling of freedom keeping them light.

With Lance’s hand clutched in Keith’s, they run.

 

* * *

 

_✦ ✧ Magic is supposed to be scary. Love is supposed to hurt. Ecstasy needs a little fear ✧ ✦_

 

* * *

 

 

The sun is rising on the eastern horizon as they reach the valley, lightening the dark sky and chasing away the stars. The world hovers in a space between. After the creatures of the night have retired and while the creatures of the day are only beginning to wake. In a time where the world hangs in a haze of gray, light bleeding into a place where there had been none. Slowly but surely saturating it in color.

Keith leans against a tree, arms crossed over his chest. He hovers at the edge of the treeline, where forest meets open field. Behind them stand the looming shadows of the mountains, but before them stretches the valley. So far untouched by galra influence.

His muscles burn and his feet ache from walking throughout the night. His legs protest every step, body prepared to give in and give out at any moment. He’s exhausted. His eyes are dry and his vision bleary. Every breath brings a new pain of it’s own.

But as he stands there, watching the band of vastaya set out through the tall grasses of the field, he feels nothing but lightness in his heart and joy in his veins. Battered and bruised. Imprisoned, but now free. The vastaya walk slow, injured, tired, and hungry, but there’s a strength to each step. There’s not a weight to their shoulders. There’s a pride that holds their chins high as they face the rising dawn.

They are vastaya. They are timeless. And they are strong.

They could be beaten down, but never broken.

They cannot break the spirit of a creature of the spirit realm.

He feels someone step up beside him, and he doesn’t have to look to know it’s Lance. He’s a comforting presence at his side. Familiar. Warm. Soothing. With him there, Keith feels himself relax just a fraction more. Tension and aches receding.

“What were you thinking back there?” He asks softly, but there’s a hard edge to his voice.

Keith tilts his head, glancing sidelong at the other man. He stands next to him, stance wide but casual. He stands on his own far better than Keith at this moment, which is remarkable given how much of a beating he took. There’s still blood dried on his skin. Wounds that have healed but not been cleaned. His hair is wing swept, and his feathers are a mess. His clothes torn and dirty.

Yet he stands there, facing the rising sun, arms crossed loosely over his chest. Head held high as he watches the vastaya pick their way into the sea of grass.

He looks battle worn and regal. A gilded sword, chipped and scratched, but all the more beautiful for it.

“Back where?”

Lance glances sideways at him, one eyebrow raised. Incredulous. Dryly amused. Pinning him with a flat stare. “When you came back for me. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

Keith looks away, unable to handle the intensity of his gaze. “You were taking too long.”

“I had it covered.”

“Not from where I was standing.”

“Completely under control.”

“You have a very loose definition of control.”

“It’s subjective.”

Keith felt a smile tugging at his lips, and he was far too tired to stop it. “It’s... really not.”

“Sure, sure. Point is, I totally had it handled. But...” His voice softens then, and Keith can hear the smile in his voice as he all but whispers, “Thank you. For coming back for me.”

Keith tilts his head then, letting his hair fall to help shield his face. “I told you before. I’m done leaving you behind.”

There’s a silence between them. Not one that stretches with tension, but one that settles between them like water. A still pond. Peaceful. Tranquil. They listen to the birds awaken. They listen to the wind rustle the grass. They listen to the hushed voices of the vastaya as they keep themselves going.

A throat is cleared behind them, and they both turn. The feathered woman stands there, hands clasped behind her back. In the brightening light of day, Keith can see they’re green and yellow beneath the layers of grime. Her eyes are sharp as she regards them, but there’s a softness about her features.

“I just wanted to say thank you once again.” She says, voice rough and hoarse, but the cadence of her words give the distinct impression of music. He likes to imagine her gathering around a campfire soon, singing the songs of their people to the freed vastaya. Perhaps she even sang in the prison like Lance once had for him. Her eyes settle on Keith, large and multifaceted in the light. “Thanks to you and your _Mieli_ , we are safe.”

Keith stiffens at the word. It stands out from the rest. A drop of the old tongue mixed in with common. A word of power that he feels deep in his bones. One that calls out to his soul. One that he’s heard many times amongst his people. In his tribe.

It’s a special word. One that connects hearts. Connects souls. Connects bodies. One that has his heart aching and soaring all at once, his stomaching doing flips and curling in on itself.

It’s a word that invokes heat, and that heat is rising straight to his face.

It’s word used solely for mates.

“He’s not my—“ The words fumble out, rushed and tumbling and jarred, but Lance cuts him off with a gentle hand to his arm. A light squeeze that has him shutting his jaw tight, lips pursing together. Heat burns his cheeks, searing his neck, making his skin prickle.

But Lance isn’t looking at him. His gentle smile is on the woman. “You’re welcome. Will you be alright from here? Will you take care of them?”

The woman nods, a small smile at her lips. “As if they were my own flock. Which, after this, they may as well be. Unfortunate circumstances have a way of bringing people together.”

“That it does.”

There’s a fondness in Lance’s voice that Keith doesn’t want to dwell on. He looks away. Out across the valley.

“I take this to mean you won’t be coming with us?”

There’s a pause, and Keith can feel Lance’s eyes on him. “I... don’t think so, no. Can you find your way from here?”

“Yes. There are a few among us from the valley tribe. Where will you go from here.”

“To the harbor cities.” Keith says, flush cooled by the return of reality. He hasn’t found Shiro, but he knows he’s out there. Alive. Escaped from the galra. For better or worse, he doesn’t know. But he has a new lead. A fresher one.

The woman doesn’t look in the least bit surprised as she nods. “Good luck on your journey.”

She clasps arms with Keith, and he nods. “And you with yours.”

She walks backwards toward the valley and the others. “ _Ouulavaash_.” She says, and he and Lance echo the ancient farewell back.

They watch the vastaya until their shapes are small and obscured in the distance. Further into the grassland sea, there’s a tribe of the plains. They would no doubt take them in. Get them back on their feet. For now, they’re safe.

“She called you my _Mieli_.” He says slowly. A whisper. A cautious weight on each word. Wading into that still pond between them.

“She did.”

“You didn’t correct her.”

“Nope.”

“Why?”

Lance looks at him then. Regards him with calm eyes. Kind and soft. When his speaks, his voice is wistful. A breeze across the pond, causing barely a ripple. He tilts his head. “Wishful thinking, I suppose.”

He doesn’t know what to do with that. There’s so much he wants to say. So many excuses the bubble up his chest, threatening to spill past his lips. So many questions. So many reasons why Lance shouldn’t be pushing that fraying boundary. So many reasons why he should leave. Why Keith doesn’t deserve this attention. Why he’s better off without Keith holding him down.

But the look in Lance’s eyes stops it all. Leaves him breathless and words dying on his tongue.

There’s no question in Lance’s eyes. No room for doubt. No room to question his choices.

Because when it comes down to it, it _is_ Lance’s choice to be here. Keith has given him plenty of reasons and chances to leave. He never has, and the look he gives Keith doesn’t give Keith any room to think that he will.

And if Keith has learned anything in the past couple months, it’s that there really is no arguing with Lance.

So instead he turns on his heel. Turns his back to the rising sun. Turns his back on the valley of grass. Turns to stalk back into the forest. Setting a course to the south. Towards the sea.

A new lead.

A new day.

Keep moving forward.

He glances over his shoulder, a smirk tugging at his lips. “Coming?”

Lance’s grin is brighter than the sun. Eyes softer than the dawning sky. “Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my social media to learn more about me, my writing, and this au!
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THIS FIC ANYWHERE ELSE.** This means you, Wattpad users.
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THE ART FROM THIS FIC.** This includes platforms such as instagram and pinterest.  
> Reblog it from the artist: [tumblr](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/180966263004/wild-magic-chapter-1-here-it-is-the-first) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters/status/1071902978372714503)  
>    
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)  
>  **Artist's Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wolfpainters.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters)  
> 


	3. Part III: Soaring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the wings of growing tenderness, we shall soar across the sea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to start piecing the gang together, and time for a little tenderness.
> 
> Happy reading!

 

✦ ✧ I am only as wild as magic ✧ ✦

 

* * *

  
   
Keith is no stranger to the ocean.

Ionia is a large island nation. Any travel in one direction long enough will bring him to the sea.

He’s seen the icy cliffs of the far north, broken into heightened stepping stones. Leapt between them and felt the surge of wildness beneath his wings and the presence of his ancestors humming in the air, sailing over the choppy and churning waters below. He’s been to the eastern mountains, stood upon the cliffs and gazed out at the waves as they caught the first rays of dawn. He’s been to the beaches of the southern reaches. Felt the fine white sand between his toes and the crystalline waves lap lazily at his ankles. He’s been to the western bays. Walked the wet sands of low tide and felt the wind tear through his feathers as storms whipped the sea into madness.

He has a healthy fear and aversion to the watery depths of the ocean. The dark unknown that lurks beneath the surface. The currents and tides that tug and pull, threatening to drag him under and swallow him whole. Waves that crash and churn. Storms that ravage and rage. The ocean is a powerful force, a barrier and a guardian of Ionia’s shores.

He is no stranger to the ocean, but neither is he a friend.

He’s always been content to observe from afar. To revel in its might and watch with horrid fascination. A heavy mix of awe and fear. Beautiful in its own way, sometimes deceptively so, but dangerous all the same.

Much like his feathers.

Much like Lance.

While the ocean is a frightening thing, there’s a sense of peace that settles over him as he gazes out across it. A calm that fills his chest with warmth. He finds solace in the wildness of the ocean. It’s something he can appreciate. The chaotic, destructive force of nature. Unbound. Uninhibited. Subject to no whim save its own.

While he fears the ocean, he can appreciate it. He appreciates the quiet coasts of Ionia. The cliffsides. The beaches. The sands and forests that give way to the watery domain.

So far, he has found nothing to appreciate about harbors.

Harbors and harbor cities are loud, crowded, and have no redeemable qualities. Their buildings are made of stone and brick, stacked high and imposing. Music spills from far too many taverns. Drunkards stumble the streets. The markets are loud and crowded, with merchants shouting their wares and prices. People walk quickly and with purpose, shoving aside those in their way. There are horses in the streets. Stray dogs in the alleyways. Fashion and decoration is a clash of colors and styles and cultures. Smells of bodies and food, dirt and sea collide unfavorably, assaulting his nose.

The mix of people is as varied as everything else. From Ionians of all sorts of tribes and clans, to people from Piltover to other countries across the sea. He’s even seen more than a dozen vastaya wandering the streets with confidence, dressed the part and barely gaining any additional stares. It’s... strange. To see all sorts of people crammed together in such a space.

Far too many people. Far too many noises. Far too many smells.

He hates it. He hates every moment of it. The salt air smells acrid mixed with everything else, and he can barely feel the wild magic here. It’s still there, deep within the earth, but it’s faint and overridden by everything else.

And he knows it’ll only get fainter as soon as he sets foot on that ship and sails away from the only home he’s ever known.

The idea crawls beneath his skin, writhing and twisting. But he knows he’ll do it. He knows he has to.

He has to find Shiro.

He feels Lance before he sees him. His presence is one that’s become as familiar as it is comforting. He’s not sure when the man’s nearness went from making him bristle with annoyance to causing him to relax with relief, but the change is noticeable. He’d be more worried for it if he weren’t so thankful for his presence.

Lance stands behind him, leaning forward until his chest presses against Keith’s wing. Not enough to be rough, but enough that the contact soothes his bristled and ruffled feathers. He hadn’t realized how much tension he was holding in his shoulder and his back until it eases out of him, bit by bit. Not completely, but enough that the ache building in his jaw calms.

He leans back against Lance, until his wing is comfortably trapped between them and he can feel Lance’s sturdy weight. He’s solid and warm. An anchor that Keith has desperately been needing. While the wooden planks of the docks seem solid, he can wear he feels them moving beneath his feet. He exhales softly, letting himself breath out some of the tension and breathe in Lance’s scent instead.

Familiar and heady. Of skin and feathers. Of the crispness of an icy spring and the forest before rainfall. Faintly of their campfire the night before. Vaguely of the pastry he’d bought when they spoke to a baker in the market square. He doesn’t turn his head, but he breathes in deep all the same, focusing on Lance’s scent and letting it overpower the unfamiliar smells surrounding them.

He can feel Lance’s magic, too. A soft and pulsing well of wildness in the bleak, tame grayscape of the city. It reminds him of storms ripping through forests. Of mountains covered in snow and set aflame by the sunset. Of waterfalls crashing to rivers below and their mist catching colors in the light.

It’s comforting. A pocket of magic that he can lean into. Draw strength from. Wild and free and contained in the form of a man, each feather a spark of madness and each splash of blue a chaos brought to life.

He wonders if Lance finds the same comfort in him. He wonders if he, too, is a blazing fire in the barren human landscape.

He hopes he is.

One hand comes to rest on his hip. Solid and warm. Touch light enough to be unimposing, but firm enough to be grounding. He feels his skin rise with goosebumps, and can’t help but feel a bubble of wry amusement. Not too long ago, he would have skinned anyone brave enough to touch him so casually. Including Lance.

Now, however, he finds himself relaxing under the touch. Even as his stomach flips, it’s pleasant.

He wonders what’s changed, but the thought brings too many churning emotions to the surface. Too many things volatile and wavering. Things fragile and twisting. Amorphous and difficult to pin down. Things that make his body hot and his blood run cold. Things that make him feel far too much. Things that make him vulnerable, and vulnerability isn’t something he can afford right now.

So he lets the wondering thoughts go. Releases them to the sea, where he might dredge them up one day. For now, he ignores his body’s response to Lance’s nearness, and instead allows himself comfort at the touch. Acknowledging that it’s not touch he craves, so much as it’s Lance’s.

It’s a fact he accepts, but not one he dwells on.

“You’re scowling,” Lance says, voice low and amused as he leans forward, head hovering over Keith’s shoulder as his lips turn just a fraction toward Keith’s ears.

Keith’s body jerks with a sharp, amused exhale. “According to you, I’m always scowling.”

“Yeah, but more so than usual.” There’s a pause, and Keith can see him turn his head out of the corner of his eye. “And your ears are twitchy.”

Keith’s frown deepens, his ears shifting to lay back as flat as they can. That doesn’t, however, stop the twitching. He’s been on edge since they arrived, and his ears react automatically to any and all sudden or sharp sounds. It’s a reflex that’s kept him alive this long, but it’s sent into overdrive in a city like this.

Plus he hasn’t gotten around to getting a new cloak, and he feels more exposed than ever. His wing is bare, and he has no hood to attempt to hide his ears. And while he knows that there are enough vastaya here that he doesn’t stand out too much, and while he is capable of ignore the stares he does receive, he can’t move with the same kind of unwavering confidence that Lance has.

“I can’t help it,” He mumbles. Someone nearby drops a crate a little too roughly, and the resounding _bang_ has one ear twitching up, alert and at attention.

He hears the soft, breathy chuckle that escapes Lance’s lips. Feels the puffs of it against his neck as shivers run through him. He leans in then, pressing the side of his head against Keith’s. His ear twitches against Lance’s hair, tickled by the soft fur of Lance’s own ear. He stiffens for just a moment before he relaxes into the touch.

“Are you upset because of the ship or because I wouldn’t let you threaten the locals for information?”

Keith feels his lips purse, but he keeps his gaze fixed firmly forward, staring down the ship before them like it’s some sort of crude beast. Which, he supposes, it might as well be.

Lance chuckles again. Keith can feel the shake of his chest against his back and the rumble of his voice vibrating through him. “I’ll take that as both.” He shifts then, moving from behind Keith to next to him. Moving his hand from Keith’s hip to drape over his shoulders. And while Keith misses the weight of him against his back, he can’t deny the pleasant brush of their wings as they stand side by side. “You know, one day I might actually be able to convince you that there’s a magic in kindness and a gentle hand.”

Keith scoffs lightly, a sharp exhale that has his lips tugging up at the edges. “You can try.”

“You don’t believe it?”

“I do, but you have your ways, and I have mine.”

“And whose ways not only got us information about Shiro, but also a decent lunch _and_ passage on a ship?”

Keith shrugs, enjoying the weight of Lance’s arm. The brush of his skin against the top of Keith’s wing. “Keeping you around has its uses.”

Lance hums thoughtfully, and when Keith risks a glance at him, he finds him smiling. Soft and gentle. A mere curve of his lips and a softness in his eyes that makes Keith think he’s not quite aware he’s smiling at all. As if feeling his gaze, Lance tilts his head, meeting Keith’s eyes and holding him captive.

There’s a gentleness there, but there’s more to it. A scrutiny. A calculating assessment as his gaze searches Keith’s. Sharp as a blade, digging deep into Keith’s thoughts. Quick and painless. Carving him open and leaving him exposed.

He speaks before Keith can look away. Before he can build up walls again and wonder when Lance had gotten so good at tearing down what’s taken centuries to build. “Are you scared?”

Keith bristles, but there’s no judgement in his tone. No jab or jibe. There’s no sharpness to the words. Just the comforting edge of understanding. Not so much a question as a gentle guidance, prompting Keith to speak the truth despite himself. “Yes.”

He tears his gaze away, eyes once again finding the ship. The imposing size of it. The masts rising and sails furled like wings before flight. The proud prow. The way it barely shifts in the waves that lap at its weathered hull.

Yes, he’s scared. He’s scared of the ocean. He’s scared of being stranded on a ship. He’s scared of being so far from his homeland. From the source of his magic. From the source of his very _being_.

But he has to go, and he knows he will.

When they had arrived at the southern harbor, Keith hadn’t known where to start. Their information gathered along the way confirmed that Shiro had fled to this city with the rebels who had liberated him. That they had come here fleeing the galra pursuing them. From here, however, Keith had no clue where to begin.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to. Lance took the lead, guiding him by the hand as he walked through the busy streets and between the imposing buildings like he had done so all his life. With his feathers blue and brazen in the sun and his chin held high. With his smile to disarm and his words as a weapon, he was able to follow gossip trails.

Keith still has no idea how he was able to do it so quickly and so thoroughly. He had watched with awe, a silent shadow, as Lance spoke to people from all walks of life. Vastaya and human alike. Sailors and merchants. Ionians and foreigners. He spoke easily, with familiarity that lulled them into compliance. He felt a few soft surges of magic as well, and it only piqued his curiosity more.

After hours of being led across the city, to different sources, following a trail of words and rumors and gossip, they found what they needed: a vastaya matching Shiro’s description had boarded a ship with another man, human, with wild copper hair, and left for Piltover.

At the mention of Piltover, Lance had lit up. He had dragged Keith aside, grinning wildly, a manic gleam in his eye as he frantically explained that he had friends in Piltover. Friends that could help them. Though unexpected, Keith can’t say he’s surprised. From what he’s learned, Lance has traveled Ionia for nearly as long as Keith has, but while Keith has stayed to the comforts of the forests, Lance has sought out the company of towns. He’s met so many, and it only stands to reason that he would meet travelers from Piltover.

What Keith finds interesting is that Lance doesn’t hesitate to call them his friends. Actual friends that he trusts, not just kindly patrons who listened to his songs and offered him food.

And while Keith is wary, and he knows that he may not trust these foreigners, but he trusts Lance. And he has faith in Lance’s judgement. Enough so that it overrides his more cautious instincts.

And that is... strange.

Interesting.

Exhilarating.

To put his faith and trust in the hands of another is to leave himself vulnerable. Something Keith has never taken lightly.

Yet he does so with Lance without question.

So they headed to the docks. He followed Lance as he walked up and down the docks, eyeing the ship and speaking to the sailors. He found a ship bound for Piltover the next morning. A cargo ship, mostly, but one not above taking aboard some passengers. One that barely seemed phased by the sight of two vastaya. One that was built strong but swift to cut through the sea.

One that would take him from his homeland come first light, and hopefully one that would take him to Shiro.

Lance’s arm tightens around his shoulder, wing stretching out to brush over Keith’s own. His tail shifts, wrapping loosely and almost absently around Keith’s ankle. Lance tilts his head to the side, once more bumping his head against Keith’s, nuzzling against his hair and his ear playfully. “Not nearly as scary as facing down a horde of galra or being locked away in one of their prisons. I was with you through that, and I’ll be with you through this.” A puff of breath against his neck. Laughter in his voice. “And if you fall into the sea, I’ll be there to drag you out of it and then write a song about it.”

Keith shoves him, but Lance only laughs. Rocking away before coming right back. Back into his space. Back to give him a grounding point. Back to shield him partially from the prying eyes of others.

Keith breathes in the smell of him, feels the warmth of him, feels the weight of his arm across his shoulders, and for the first time, thinks that maybe this won’t be so bad.

 

* * *

 

It doesn’t take him long to come to the conclusion that he was wrong. Very wrong. And travel on the sea is not just bad, but terrible.

Not only does he find it hard to balance while the ship cuts across choppy waters, but his stomach constantly rolls with the waves beneath them. Every rock and every movement makes the tight ball in his gut tighter. His only solace is the fact that he hasn’t yet actually been sick. Though that’s little consolation when he just feels perpetually miserable instead.

As they pulled away from the harbor, he stayed on deck with Lance, watching Ionia’s shores disappear as the sun rose, bringing color to the world even as they left it behind. He had prepared for the way his heart lurched leaving his homeland, but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

Now he lays curled up below deck in the small cabin he and Lance had been given. The only bit of furniture is the bunkbed that juts from one wall, the mattresses hard and the blankets thin. Comfort isn’t a high priority, but that’s fine. He’s used to sleeping on the ground anyway.

The walls are made from the same worn wood around the ship, perpetually damp from the air and stinking of brine. It’s drafty, but not enough to offer a circulation of fresh air. Just enough to bring a chill. He would prefer to be on deck, wind in his hair and cooling his skin, than down here in a cramped space where he can smell whatever slop is in the kitchen for lunch and the linger scent of unwashed bodies.

But this space is at least private, and he’ll give up his comforts for privacy. While the crew doesn’t seem bothered to have vastaya around, Keith still catches curious eyes now and then. And he doesn’t want to be seen while he’s feeling so... off balance. He’d rather be sick and miserable alone than have some relief and have his weaknesses witnessed.

Apart from his natural grace being taken from him and the unsettled pit in his stomach, the worst part of the voyage so far is the part he knows will never go away. He was born in Ionia. Spent centuries living across its landscape. He is vastaya, descendant of the Vastayashai'rei. The natural magic of the land courses through his veins. Silence is never truly deafening in Ionia. Not to the vastaya. Not to those who can hear the music in the silence.

Here, on this ship, surrounded by a chorus and calamity of voices, surrounded by the crash of waves and roar of the sea, he feels the void of silence like he never has before. A chasm in his chest. He never realized how consistent the chorus of wild magic has been until it’s not there at all. He never realized true silence would grate on his skin and sink into his insides with twisted, gnarled roots splitting him apart.

He knew he would feel off balance without wild magic thrumming beneath the pads of his feet and spreading through his lungs with every breath, flitting and dancing across his skin.

But he never realized how lonely it would be without it.

He feels Lance coming long before he walks through the door. Lying there on the bottom bunk, one arm thrown over his eyes, he can feel Lance like a beacon. A pulse-fire of wild energy that burns bright in the dark, silent void surrounding the ship. Lance’s magic has been familiar for a while now, and Keith prides himself in being able to pick it out amongst the other magics of Ionia. But here, without natural magic surrounding him, Lance burns like a star, and Keith finds himself drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

Still, he keeps his eyes covered as the door creaks open and clicks closed. But even with his eyes closed, he can feel Lance’s presence like a balm against his skin. Making that knot in his gut ease just a fraction. Taking it from painful to aching.

“How’re you doing?” Lance asks, his weight settling on the edge of the bunk. Keith feels the brush of his feathers where his wing sweeps out behind him. His fingers twitch with the ever present urge to touch.

“I hate sailing,” Keith grumbles, lips pursed.

Something bumps against his arm. Cold and welcoming against his heated skin. “Here, drink this.”

He shifts his arm to find Lance smiling at him, expression sympathetic in the dim light that filters through the porthole. Keith eyes the offered water-skin warily, but sits up and does as he’s told.

Only to make a fast as soon as he’s past the first swallow, lips curled and nose wrinkled. The water is cold, but it tastes of wood and metal. “This is terrible.”

Lance’s smile remains sympathetic, but there’s an amused glint in his eyes. “It’s not fresh from the well springs of northern Ionia, but it’s all we have.”

Keith sighs, but lifts the water-skin once more to his lips. It’s better than nothing. It’s better than anything he got in the galra prison.

Lance gives him a slight nod of approval before he turns away. As Keith watches, he reaches down, pulling his traveling bag from beneath the bed. His bow and lute come with it, but he gently sets those back beneath, where there’s no risk of them stepping on them in the limited space. He pulls the bag up onto his lap, loosening the clasps and ties to dig inside it.

“I got you something.”

Keith’s brows rise, and he sits up more, shifting until he’s sitting on the edge of the bed next to Lance. “You got me something?” Confusion. Surprise. A strange wonder and anticipation that feels light and fluttery in his chest.

Lance glances at him, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips before he looks back down. “Yup.”

Keith leans in close, placing a hand behind Lance so he can lean into his arm, hooking his chin over Lance’s shoulder so he can peer curiously into the bag. And if his fingers brush against the silken texture of Lance’s feathers in the process? Neither of them call attention to it.

He watches as Lance pulls a bundle out of his bag, brandishing it with a flourish. “Here!” He shoves it into Keith’s hands, and he has to lean away to inspect it.

The bundle is decidedly cloth, but there’s a mix of textures. Soft and comfortable. Breathable and stretchy. Thicker bits of smooth leather. All in dark colors. Burgundy. Black. Dark blue. It’s all in pieces, and realization starts to come together as he picks the pieces apart.

“You got me... clothes?” He looks up, confusion furrowing his brow.

“Yup.” Lance grins, that familiar twinkle in his eye when he’s proud of himself. He stretches his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, while he plants his hands behind him on the bed, leaning against them. His tail swishes back and forth along the floor, lazy but restless. “I figured your clothes got a little torn up last time you got captured by the galra, and with all the traveling. And who _knows_ when you got new clothes before that. Plus you lost your cloak, so... figured you could use a new one.” He leans a little closer, head tilted and a gleam in his eye. “It’s like mine. So you can show off your feathers.”

While that’s not the kind of cloak he would’ve picked out for himself, Keith feels his eyes crinkling with a smile before it truly touches his lips. He keeps his eyes on the pile in his lap, hands smoothing out over the fabric. “Thank you, Lance.”

A silence stretches, but he can feel Lance’s presence and magic fill the empty space in the cabin. Can feel how it flares off of him and mingles with Keith’s own. Familiar and comforting. twisting and coiling in a way that’s unlike anything Keith has ever felt.

And while he doesn’t look at Lance, he somehow knows he’s smiling.

Then Lance clears his throat, sitting forward once more and digging into the bag. He pulls out another bundle, this one much smaller, and sets the bag on the floor before turning to face Keith. He sits cross legged on the bed, wing falling behind him, sweeping out over the mattress to dangle over the floor. His tail continues to flick and twitch, barely touching the floorboards.

“I, uh,” Lance looks away, off to the side and into the empty space of the room. He scratches the back of his neck, and his shoulders are hunched just so. It’s not often Keith sees Lance turn sheepish. He normally wears confidence like a second skin.

It piques his interest. He turns, mirroring Lance’s sitting position and facing him on the bed, bundle of clothes still resting in his lap. As he watches, Lance bites at his bottom lip. A gesture that looks subconscious more than anything. Keith tilts his head, ears twitching curiously, and waits.

“I... got you a couple more things.” His hands fidget with the small bundle, and he removes two things. He hands over the first with a flourish, sitting up a little straighter. “First of all: chocolate. Because I said I’d make you try it, and you _need_ to try it.”

Keith tentatively takes the wrapped bar into his hands, turning it over delicately. He lifts it slowly to his nose and sniffs. It smells... sweet, but darker than that. Rich? Strange, certainly. He glances forward to find Lance smiling at him. A soft sort of smile. One that barely touches his lips, but shines in his eyes. One that has heat rushing to his face as he quickly lowers the bar to his lap, averting his eyes as he idly picks at the wrapper with his nails.

“And last, but not least...” He pulls out a small object, keeping it mostly hidden with his hand as he holds it up. He presents it, not with a flourish, nor with a grin. But with a smile that borders on hesitant and a hesitancy that borders on wary. Then he turns his hand, uncurling his fingers to let the object dangle from them—

A string of beads, woven onto purple and red strands. Beads off all sorts of colors and shapes, catching the dim light in their cabin and shining through, casting colors to the dull planks of the walls. Amongst the colors and beads is a single silver bead, sculpted from metal into the shape of a small bird skull.

It’s beautiful, and Keith finds himself reaching for it automatically, gaze transfixed on the crystalline splashes of colors. They remind him of Ionian crystals, and he can feel a faint hum coming from them. Reminding him of home.

As soon as he touches it, however, he returns to his right state of mind. Eyes snapping to Lance and fingers curling away from the token. Lance had presented it as a gift, but... he feels hesitant to take it. Like somehow something so beautiful can’t possibly belong to him.

Lance is smiling, but the tension around his eyes that had started to melt away in the wake of Keith’s transfixed delight, starts to creep back in the face of his hesitancy.

Lance’s smile fades just a fraction, and Keith feels it like an ache in his chest. “I understand if it’s not really... your _thing_. I know not everyone likes things like this, I just... thought of you, and— you don’t have to accept it if you don’t want to—“

“I like it,” He says, words leaving him in a rush. Lance’s mouth snaps shut, and he blinks in his surprise. Heat seems to be a fixed fixture under Keith’s skin as he looks back down at the string of beads in Lance’s hand. “Um... what do I— how do I—“

Lance chuckles, making a motion with his hand. “Turn around.”

Keith does as he’s told, and his breath stills in his lungs as he feels Lance’s fingers card through his hair. Slow and gentle as he detangles knots that had formed in the sea breeze. And then with deft and sure fingers, he separates a section of Keith’s hair, right behind his ear, and weaves the string of beads into a braid.

He takes his time, and Keith knows it, but he doesn’t call attention to it. Instead, he closes his eyes and lets himself enjoy it. When Lance is done, he digs his fingers into Keith’s hair, pushing through the strands and letting his hand fall.

“Beautiful,” He says, soft and gentle with an exhale of breath, making Keith question whether or not he was truly meant to hear.

The beads feel strange. A foreign weight. Nothing drastic, but noticeable all the same. Cool and smooth where it occasionally brushes against his skin. A soft hum that is so slight, but buzzes across his skin with the familiarity of home.

He stares at the wooden planks of the wall in front of him, heart racing and gut twisting with far more than seasickness. An adrenaline that pulses beneath his skin. An electricity in his veins. Anticipation, worry, and excitement tangling together and clogging his lungs.

Because Lance had told him he didn’t have to _accept_ the gift. Not that he didn’t have to _take_ it.

And while the difference in that wording is slight, the subtext of it could mean so much.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ Magic is not some river that can be easily channeled - It is a churning sea that goes where it pleases ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

“Come on, you’re never going to feel better if you stay in that stuffy room and mope all day.” Lance tugs him forward, though the bowels of the ship. His grip on Keith’s wrist is firm but not tight. He can easily break out of his hold if he wanted to. But Keith has already accepted that he’s weak to Lance’s whims.

The ship rocks and sways with the ocean, leaving not a moment of steadiness for him to gain his balance. He stumbles to the side, free hand automatically moving to brace himself against the wall. Lance slows for him to get his feet under him again, but keeps moving.

Keith glares at his own feet, feeling betrayed. He’s always had impeccable balance. Be it on the ground or on branches high in a tree. Cliff sides and slippery rocks. He’s never feared for his balance. His footing has always been sure and confident. He’s always known his weight and how to move it, to trust it, to wield it.

Feeling off kilter every moment of the day is a new feeling, and it’s not one that he likes. His wing flares out behind him, feathers puffed up with his agitation. It helps him balance somewhat, but not enough to keep him from noticeably stumbling. All they’re doing is walking down the halls of ship, and yet he can’t even do that without feeling like he might fall over, without reaching out to press a hand to the wall, without feeling his stomach swoop and clench as his center of gravity is shifted constantly.

And just when he thinks he might have gotten the hang of it, a wave comes and the ship rocks, and he’s once again stumbling.

His stomach rolls with every rock of the ship, every shift of his balance, and he wishes that Lance had just let him stay in their cabin.

They pass by several open doorways, leading to storage rooms and sleeping quarters and other common areas. Keith pointedly refuses to look into them. He can hear the sailors moving around, laughing amongst themselves. He clenches his teeth, hoping they don’t see him faltering.

His gaze shifts from his own feet to Lance’s, eyes narrowing as he realizes that Lance... isn’t stumbling. Even when a particularly hard sway has Keith thrown to the side, Lance remains as balanced and poised as ever. He shifts as the ship does, but his steps don’t falter. His wing and tail shift as his weight does, but neither of them look particularly agitated.

Keith’s lips purse. “How are you doing that?”

Lance pauses, glancing over his shoulder at Keith’s particularly sharp tone. His eyes are met with a weak glare and a scowl that feels more like a pout. He tilts his head to the side, ears twitching just slightly as his tail swishes around his feet. He looks genuinely confused, blinking owlishly. “Doing what?”

Keith gestures to Lance’s feet with his free hand. “ _That_.”

Lance looks down, brows furrowing as his gaze returns to Keith’s face. “Standing?”

“Yes!”

“I don’t—“

“You’re not stumbling! The ship never stops moving, but you walk around like you’re walking on solid ground. You walk like the sailors.” He narrows his eyes, lifting his chin just a fraction. “You said you’d never been on a ship before.”

Lance shrugs, one shoulder rising and falling. “I haven’t. Not like this. I’ve been on river boats throughout Ionia, but never one of this size on the ocean.”

Keith’s gaze flickers pointedly to Lance’s feet before returning to his face. He glares as Lance’s lips twitch upward. He tugs Keith forward, free hand wrapping around his waist to rest lightly on his lower back, putting them chest-to-chest, toe-to-toe with only a few breaths worth of space between them. He lowers his chin, meeting Keith’s eyes through his lashes. “It’s not that hard.”

Keith bristles, tensing in Lance’s hold. His free hand had moved to Lance’s chest automatically, and while the heel of it rests against his bare skin, his fingers curl away into a fist.

Before he can defend himself, however, Lance is chuckling. The sound is amused, but not mocking. He begins to sway back and forth. A gentle sway of his hips. Just slight steps from side to side. A dance not yet fully formed. Keith has no choice but to move with him.

All the while, Lance holds Keith’s gaze. Eyes bright even in the dim lighting below deck. “You’re thinking of it like walking. Where the ground is always sturdy beneath your feet. I think of it like flying. Where the wind isn’t solid. It’s always shifting and writhing beneath your winds, and you have to constantly adjust to keep your balance.”

Keith blinks, glare relaxing. He... hadn’t thought of it like that.

Lance’s eyes search his face, smile twitching a fraction wider, even as his voice remains soft and kind. “Your problem is that you’re thinking too hard. You’re too aware of it. You’re getting frustrated when the boards beneath your feet don’t act as you expect them to. Do you get mad at the wind for behaving as wind does? Do you think about the shift in balance as you glide? It’s an instinctual part of us. So stop thinking so hard, and let your instincts take over.”

He steps back then, hand slipping from Keith’s wrist to his hand as he spins him around suddenly. Twirling Keith several steps away and out into the center of the hall. When Keith stops the motion, wing still swirling with the momentum, his eyes find Lance’s, wide with surprise and uncertainty. But Lance is smiling at him, just as encouraging as it is teasing.

Then the ship rocks violently, to one side and back again. And Keith... moves with it. He lets his body take over. Lets his instincts shift and remain balanced on its own. As he would do in flight. As he would do in the middle of a fight. Trust his body to do what needs to be done.

His eyes stay locked with Lance’s, and he feels an exhilarated smile tug at the corners of his lips.

Lance laughs, clapping his hands together. “See? Not so hard!”

“I still don’t like it.”

“Is there anything you _do_ like?”

 _You_. The thought comes unbidden. Whispered from a place of vulnerability and dizzying contentment. He purses his lips, choosing silence instead.

Lance’s smile never falters. Instead it tilts, shifts, melts into something more mischievous. Reflecting the impish light in his eyes. “Now let’s see if you can catch me.”

“Lance!”

But he’s already spun around, taken off down the hall at a sprint. Keith scowls, but he’s already moving. Already chasing after him. Body responding to the playful challenge before Keith can give it consent.

He supposes he really is weak to Lance’s whims.

The chase isn’t as wild or as quick as it might have been on land. He knows that Lance is slowing down for him, moving just quick enough to stay ahead. His laughter filters down the hall to him, making Keith’s ears twitch and perk forward. With the heat of the chase forefront in his mind, his body takes over. Balancing is easier. He still stumbles, still falls into the walls, but he’s quicker to recover and quicker to adjust. He doesn’t dwell on it, and instead pushes himself to learn from it. Adapt. Move faster.

A few sailors dodge out of the way as they sprint past in a blur of feathers and color, laughing and shouting their playful jabs. And for once, Keith pays them no mind. Gaze locked on the flash of blue rounding corners ahead of him.

It doesn’t take long for Lance to reach the steps that lead up to the main deck, and he darts up them two at a time, Keith hot on his tail.

He pauses as he bursts out onto the deck, cool night air crisp and refreshing against his skin. It fills his lungs, chasing away and easing the knot of nausea that had felt leaden in his gut. He tastes the salt on his tongue, feels the bite of the wind against his cheeks. It whips up into his hair and his feathers, combing through with playful fingers.

Then he hears a laugh, and his ears turn toward it, body following in their wake. Lance dances up the steps to the upper deck at the front of the ship. The challenge in his voice, drifting back to Keith on the wind. He starts after him, clambering up the steps on hands and feet when the rocking of the ship becomes too much. He charges toward Lance—

Then Lance stops at the center of the upper deck, spinning around. Blue feathers dark but catching the moonlight, throwing back shades of crystalline blue as his wing flares out. His arms go wide, spread and welcoming as Keith crashes into him.

They roll across the deck, laughter making them breathless as cling to one another, at the mercy of the rocking deck.

Then they come to a stop, rolling apart until they’re lying side by side. Their wings are trapped beneath them, feathers ruffled and overlapping. Neither of them move to untangle them.

Keith’s hair falls around his face as he gazes up at the stars, breath leaving his lungs at the sight of them. Vast and many. Bright dots that speckle and splatter across the infinite dark canvas of the midnight sky. The moon shines bright, three quarters full and gazing down upon the sea, refracted in the waves.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Lance asks, voice soft and lost in the sound of crashing waves.

“Yeah,” Keith breathes, unable to tear his gaze away.

“Much better than that cramped little cabin, huh?” A lilt to his voice. A curve to his words to mimic the smirk Keith knows is there.

He allows himself to smile. “Yeah.”

“How’s your stomach?”

The nausea is still there, but it’s fainter. Far more manageable. Far less painful. More of the fading ache of sickness than the throes of it. “Better.” He turns then, rolling his head to the side to look at Lance. His eyes are turned towards the heavens, and Keith’s gaze roams the sharpness of his profile, the upturn of his nose, the softness of his smile, the way the stars reflect in his eyes, the way his blue markings curve along his sharp cheekbones and sharper chin.

The stars are beautiful, but so is Lance. A piece of the heavens woven together with the magic of the earth.

“How are you so calm?” Keith finds himself asking.

Lance hums, head tilting towards him but gaze fixed overhead. “What’d you mean?”

“You’re so calm, and we’re so far from everything. I can’t— I can’t feel the magic anymore.” It’s not under his feet or in the air he breathes. It’s worse than being in galra infested lands because at least then he can feel the wild magic beneath the taint of shadow. Here he feels nothing. An empty void that leaves him feeling hollow.

As he watches, Lance’s smile curls a little wider. His eyes crinkle with it, blue marks lifting up with his cheeks. When he speaks, however, his voice is as gentle as a breath on the wind. Light and offhanded. “The magic isn’t gone, Keith. It’s all around us. It lives in the earth. It lives in us. It’s just... quieter away from Ionia. The music is soft, but we know better than to think the song is over. Unlike humans, we can hear the melodies in the silence.” His head turns fully then, eyes finding Keith’s. The smile he wears is gentle and playful, but there’s a strength there. It reminds Keith of the sea. “Besides,” His lips curl wider, eyes glinting with that spark of madness that sends shivers down his spine. “I’ve always thought the ocean has a magic of it’s own. It’s a different song, but it’s music all the same.”

Keith finds himself acutely aware of the rock of the ship beneath him. A floating craft of wood at the mercy of the sea. Of the waves. Dark and treacherous, reflecting the stars and the moon. Waves that rise and crash. Playfully tossing the ship but feeling the power beneath the movement. Knowing they could all be drowned on a whim.

But instead of feeling fear, for once he feels... a thrill. The same thrill he feels when he feels a surge of wild magic coursing through him. When he feels it crackle like fire across his feathers, knowing it could rip him apart but trusting that it won’t.

And for the first time since they felt, he feels a calm settle over him. He feels the remaining tension ease from his body.

The sea may not have the same power his homeland does, but it’s wild all the same. And there’s a comfort in that.

He feels the smile in his cheeks, creeping down to tug at his lips as the endorphins of relief course through him like madness. Before his smile can be realized, however, he turns back to the stars.

“Show me the Lhotlan constellations,” He says instead.

He can hear Lance’s smile. “Only if you show me the Marmora ones.”

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ I do not wish to kill the mortals - I want them to hear the music ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

Keith has never been afraid of storms.

There has always been a level of comfort among the chaos of nature. Where the wind is wild and rabid, the trees sway and claw at the air, and the rain lashes and stings against his skin. Drenched to the bone, freezing and chilled, but somehow awed at the destruction. At the power. At the peace that's brought in its wake.

He's never been one to shy from storms. He'a always faced them. Been drawn to them. Spirit finding comfort in the madness of it, his own magic welling up in his blood to chase away the chill.

Storms at sea, however, are an entirely different matter.

They batter against the ship, causing it to rock and list dangerously. Keith's body rolls to the side, alternating between being thrown against the wall and bracing himself to keep from falling to the floor. He can feel the ship tilt as it surges up a rising swell. Dipping as it rides the cresting wave down.

He can hear the crash of the waves against the hull of the ship and the creaking groans of the straining planks. Above, he can hear the constant hustled beat of heavy footfalls as the sailors scurry around the deck. He can hear their shouts, words muffled but voices loud and sharp and harsh as they communicate over the roar of the ocean. He can hear the beating of the rain and the howl of the wind.

They're stuck below deck. The captain had ordered them to stay in their cabin, along with the few others who had booked passage on the vessel. Lance had insisted he could help, but the captain sternly refused him. They're not sailors, he said, and it's dangerous to wander the ship, especially on deck. He doesn't want to have to worry about them.

Lance had looked like he would protest, but Keith had touched his arm. Gentle, but insistent. After taking a long look at Keith, Lance had relented.

Keith tells himself it's not because he looked pale and strained and anxious.

He knows from the look in Lance's eyes as he led them below deck that he's wrong.

Keith is no stranger to danger. He thrives in it. He weaves through it and comes out on top. It's part of him. He, himself, is dangerous. He is as wild as magic. As dangerous as the wilds of Ionia. There are few things he fears. Few things that make him quake. He's faced down the galra and choked on shadow magic. He's been beaten and bruised. He's been surrounded and out numbered. He's dealt with the imposing loneliness and the haze of time it brings.

He looks death in the eye and dares it to try.

One of the only things he fears is to be powerless. Lacking the ability to save himself. To save those he cares about. To save his family, his friends, his homeland. To be unable to fight. To be unable to try. To be helpless. Truly helpless.

And here, on the open ocean, at the mercy of forces that go far beyond his control. Trapped in his cabin with nothing he can do while the ship is tossed between a mounting storm and a raging sea, he feels truly powerless for the first time in his life.

The only thing keeping him grounded are the fingers combing through his hair and the gentle hum filling the cabin.

He lays on his back on the bottom bunk, and Lance sits against the wall, legs stretched out and thighs pillowing Keith's head. His eyes are squeezed shut, lips pursed tight, and brows pinched. Lance's fingers smooth through his hair, slow and methodical. Occasionally he pauses to fiddle with the string of beads, a fingertip reverently trailing over them before his fingers dive back into the thick mess of Keith's hair, nails scratching at his scalp.

A splintering crack of thunder tears through the air, vibrating through the ship. Keith's entire body tenses. Eyes blown wide. Heart hammering in his chest. Wild and bruising.

A soft chuckle, and Keith's gaze snaps to Lance's. Keith's eyes narrow, but the humor in Lance's smile isn't mocking. "What?" He snaps, jaw aching from where it's been clenched.

"Nothing," Lance hums, gaze fixed on his fingers shifting through Keith's hair. "I used to think you were jumpy before, but that was nothing compared to now."

"I'm not jumpy."

Another crack of lightning. Keith's entire body recoils, tensing and curling in on himself.

Lance's smile widens just a fraction. "Like a fledgeling."

Keith huffs, turning his head away to stare at the wall across the room. He doesn't move from Lance, however. The comfort of his presence is too great. His thigh is strong and warm beneath his cheek.

"You know, when I was a kid, I was afraid of storms, too."

"I'm not afraid of _storms_."

Lance just hums. The deft fingers move up through his hair, smoothing out along the base of his ears. Lance rubs just behind them, firm but gentle. Keith's eyes flutter closed, lips pursing as a shiver runs through him, relaxing him inch by inch in its wake.

"Holy crow, your ears are so soft." Fingers move up his ears, thumbs smoothing over the soft fur as he massages to the tip and back down. "Anyway, my mom used to sing to me whenever a storm passed by our village. Always the same song. The melody of it fit the driving rain and flashes of lightning. It helped me realize the melody of storms is just a crescendo of the melody of rain. It's powerful and driving. Strong and wild. A lot like you."

Keith exhales a soft scoff, finger picking at a loose thread on Lance's pants. "More like you."

Another soft chuckle that sends goosebumps rising across his flesh. "Want to hear the song?"

"Yes."

Lance's song starts out gentle, voice curling and rounding around words that Keith doesn't understand but feels like a vibration across his skin, reverberating down through his bones. He closes his eyes, and he listens.

He loses himself in Lance's voice. In the way it rises and falls, building, building so slowly but so steadily. There's a rhythm to it, driving it forward. A rhythm so particular that the pitter patter of rain against the ship's hull fills the spaces in between. There's the roll of words and the lilt of Lance's voice, followed by a crack and snap as he puts hard emphasis on the pronunciation of words before slipping back into something more smooth, sliding once more into rolling depths.

His song doesn't drown out the sounds of the storm, but rather, completes it. They weave together in a perfect harmony, until Keith has a hard time telling one from the other. Lance sings to the storm, just as the storm sings to Lance.

Keith finds himself relaxing. Sinking into the hard mattress and tilting his head to nuzzle into the warmth of Lance's thigh. Breathes in his scent, and that, too, is reminiscent of the storm. He lets Lance's voice crash and roll over him, dragging him down into the depths of a trance. Lets his honey rich voice sink through his skin, fill his chest, settling into his bones.

Until Lance is the storm. The storm is Lance. They wrap Keith up in a bundle of serenity that is so far removed from where he had been mere moments ago.

Lance's voice, he decides, is like magic.

As the song ends and Lance's final words come to an end, Keith lets the notes echo away to be swallowed by the storm.

Nothing has changed. Lightning crackles and shakes. The hull of the ship groans and creaks. The waves slap violently, rocking and listing the ship at a whim. The rain is still pounding, and the shouts of the sailors above hasn't stopped.

Nothing has changed.

Yet Keith feels different.

He feels... more at ease. Still tense, yes, but more at peace with it. He's still able to hear Lance's voice between the rumbles of thunder. He can hear the echoing words he can't understand whispered in the rain. He can hear the lilting rolling of the notes in the crash of the waves.

Keith rolls his head back, opening his eyes to gaze up at Lance. The fingers in his hair adjust to the change but never still. Lance's head is tilted back against the wall, eyes closed and face serene.

"How do you know so many songs?"

He watches as Lance's lips curl into the ghost of a smile. "From my tribe. From our people. From the people I've met in my travels. Bits and pieces from all over Ionia. But most of them... from my family."

While his smile doesn't falter, Keith doesn't miss the ache in his words. In the way he says them. It's the same ache he feels when he thinks about the Marmora tribe. About the people who raised him. About Shiro.

"You miss them."

Lance's eyes open, though his head doesn't move. He stares down at Keith, eyes half lidded as his smile curls wider. "Of course, I do, Keith. They're my family."

Keith shifts, turning his body a little more towards Lance. Giving him his full attention. "What're they like?"

He lifts an eyebrow, smirk coiling on one side of his mouth. "My family?" Keith nods, and Lance chuckles. "Loud. Nosey. Overbearing." His eyes slip closed, and his smile softens. "Vibrant. Full of joy. Beautiful. Fierce. Defiant. Loyal. Strong. Kind. Everything I am is because of them."

He trails off, and the ache is stronger. Keith can hear it. The fingers in his hair have slowed. Idle scratches as Lance loses himself to memories.

"If you miss them so much, why did you leave?" Lance opens his eyes once again, peering curiously as Keith frowns. "They're still alive? Your tribe still stands?" Lance nods slowly, and Keith's brows pinch. "Then why do you travel so much? Why do you spend your time in human towns and in human taverns when you could be with them?"

If his village hadn't been destroyed, Keith would still be there. His tribe would still be whole. Shiro would still be with him.

Fingers trail lightly up one of his ears, nails scratching behind the base of it. "I've never been good at staying in one place." He speaks slowly, eyes staring vacantly across the room. Smile faded and voice distant. "I was restless. I wanted to see all of Ionia. I wanted to know of the different tribes, of the different people. I wanted to do something. I felt like I was meant for more than the borders of our lands."

His hands still, fingers tangled in Keith's hair, his wrist resting against Keith's neck.

"I was warned against humans, we all are, but... I found it hard to believe they could all be monsters. At my first human village, I was stared at and feared, but I wasn't attacked. It was strange, so be seen as a threat by those we're taught to fear. I spoke with them. I told them stories. I sang to them. And they listened. I watched their eyes widen with interest and awe, and I realized... they're not monsters. Not all of them. Most of them are little more than children. Arrogant, young, and deaf to the music around them. I decided I wanted them to hear our music. Know our ways. I thought that— I _think_ that if we share with them, they will come to understand. And through understanding, we can learn to find a balance. If they learn to respect our lands and wild magic... then our people will survive. Our people began with the unity between the Vastayashai'rei and humans. I like to think we can find that peace again.“

Something twists in Keith's chest. Hot and aching. Lance looks haggard and hollow. The change had happened so suddenly and so subtly. Keith can see the shadows in his eyes and the lines around his mouth. The way he frowns. The way he looks far, far too tired. But the passion with which he speaks sparks a flame inside Keith. The same rush of adrenaline he feels when he cleanses a temple of shadow magic.

He lifts a hand, placing it over Lance's wrist where it rests on his neck. His fingers curl around Lance's bracers, brushing along the sensitive skin beneath the heel of his hand. Lance's eyes flicker to him, but his gaze is distant.

"How long have you been traveling?" Keith asks, voice a whisper beneath the raging storm. "How long have you been sharing our stories?"

The ghost of a smile, sardonic and humorless. "Far too long." His fingers curl, nudging the beaded strand braided into Keith's hair. "But if I had given up, I never would've found you."

Keith's fingers tighten around Lance's wrist.

They've both been fighting for so, so long. Years. Decades. Centuries. He took Lance as a buffoon, but he's been fighting in his own way. His own, much more subtle and much softer way. But no less potent. No less important.

While Keith has been fighting tooth and nail, dagger and claw to rid Ionia of the galra, Lance has been building allies of the humans. Teaching them. Showing them that vastaya are nothing to be feared. Showing them how to respect the magic their world is built upon.

Through his words.

Through his songs.

Through his smiles.

While Keith has fought to cleanse with his feathers.

His blade.

His own blood seeping into the ground.

They've both been fighting the same battle on different fronts. All for the sake of wild magic. For their homeland. And Keith had been a fool not to see it until now.

"I think they'd like you." Fingers pull from his hair, wrist slipping through Keith's hold as those fingertips trail along his jaw. His cheekbone. Tracing the red markings on his face. Keith looks up at him, brows furrowed, and Lance chuckles. "My family. I think they'd like you."

Keith feels the breath leave his lungs. "Really?"

Lance's smile loses some of its shadows. His eyes lose some of his ghosts. "Really. They'd love you. I can introduce you to them someday? To my— to _our_ tribe. They're your people, too, Keith. I can bring you there."

Keith's chest feels too full. His heart feels too swollen to beat. A smile tugs at his lips. "I'd like that."

He falls asleep that night to the swap of the ship, a warm body next to him, and the soft hum of Lance's voice weaving through the storm.

 

* * *

 

Nights blur into days, and days blend into nights.

Time on the open sea is strange and amorphous. The light rises and falls, but the ship never truly sleeps. Parts of the crew are always awake, always working, always moving about and chatting amongst themselves. Food in the galley is always available. The sound of boots on worn wooden planks can always be heard.

Sleep is stolen in moments when activity lulls. Moments when eyelids grow heavy and the body grows weary. It's a sporadic schedule born from a need to sleep but without a need for consistency. Keith is familiar enough with the lifestyle to adapt easily.

While they have a cabin, and while he does seek the solace of privacy often, he finds himself sleeping elsewhere on the ship just as frequently.

With his fear receding, a respect for the ocean growing, and his balance coming far more naturally, Keith wanders the ship. The sailors and other passengers have grown used to them already, and while he does gain several curious glances, none are hostile and he's long since learned to ignore stares.

And whenever the stares are too heavy and his shoulders begin to hunch, Lance always seems to be there, drawing away the attention with a loud laugh and a anecdotal tale.

He sleeps on the deck of the ship often, laid out beneath a blanket of stars with the wind caressing his skin. Some nights he lays awake, lost in thought and the cosmos, while Lance curls up at his side. A warm and familiar weight. Wings woven together in a blanket of feathers. The soft puffs of his breath against Keith's neck while he sleeps.

Some days Keith finds sleep in the form of naps stolen in moments of inactivity. Curled up against Lance's side, his arm around Keith's shoulders and wing obscuring him from view. Giving Keith enough security that he's able to let his consciousness drift. Sometimes Lance talks with the crew seated nearby. Sometimes he sings. He never leaves Keith's side until he's awake.

A lot of days, when the sun is high and bodies are lethargic with the lull of the afternoon, they find stolen hours of sleep curled in the crow's nest, hidden from view but open to the wind and sky.

Time drags, slow and lazy. A haze of daylight and starlight. Of shadows and the dark void of the sky.

But for once, Keith doesn't feel hollow. He doesn't feel empty. He doesn't feel the grate of time against his skin or the lingering anxiousness of staying still.

Lance is at his side. Lance is safe.

Shiro has escaped the galra. He doesn't know where he is, but he's alive. He's alive and free.

It's one one particularly lazy afternoon, curled up in the crow's nest with his head resting on Lance's shoulder. Listening to his soft breaths as the wind shifts through his feathers and ruffles his hair. That Keith realizes the warm fuzziness he feels inside, the feeling of his chest being full with bubbles fit to burst, is contentment.

True, peaceful contentment.

It's something he hasn't felt in a long, long time.

 

* * *

 

Keith sits atop the lowest crossbeam on the forward mast. He wood beneath him is smooth and weather worn, dried from the sun but still damp in some places from the rain the night before. He sits off to the side, away from the mast where sailors climb to put themselves in the crow's nest.

His hands rest idly on the wood to either side of him, nails picking idly at grooves he finds in the surface. His feet dangle in the open air, swinging idly. His wing flairs out behind him, drifting lazily in the wind as the ship surges ever forward.

The sea breeze is warmer here. Far warmer than it was when they left Ionia. It brings with it a taste of salt and a thickness that he's unfamiliar with. It combs through his feathers and tugs playfully at his hair.

The clothes Lance had gotten him fit wonderfully. Dark colored fabric clings to his body, offering a semblance of protection in places while still giving him full range of movement. It keeps him covered and far less exposed than Lance's own ensemble.

It's familiar and comfortable, and he's pleasantly surprised that Lance was able to pick something that he, himself, would choose.

The cloak, however, is... different. It's far less than a cloak and more of a hood. The fabric circles around his shoulders, pinning in the front and falling down around his upper arms and to roughly his shoulder blades. It covers the top of his wing, obscuring where it connects to his body, but it leaves the majority of his wing and feathers visible. Open. Free.

The hood covers his head, giving him a familiar weight and security, but it doesn't pull to far forward and there are holes at the top for his ears to stick out from.

It's... a strange sensation.

He's always worn cloaks to hide himself. To cover his wing and hide his ears beneath. But this... it offers comfort but no protection. It leaves him exposed, but it's more than that. It accentuates the parts of him he's used to hiding. It puts the pieces of his vastaya heritage on display.

Keith had been uncomfortable with it at first, but the spark he sees in Lance's eyes whenever he looks Keith up and down have a thrill running through him.

Lance has called him beautiful for a while now, but now Keith is starting to feel as if it might actually be true.

On the deck below, the sailors sing. A cluster of them as they scrub the deck and gather ropes. One of them sits on a barrel, leaning against the wall of the rear deck and plucks at a stringed instrument.

They sing, boisterous and jaunty. None of them have the same smooth voice that Lance has, and none of them have the same level of control. None of their songs or words tug at Keith's soul and vibrate through his veins. But he enjoys the music all the same.

It's a simple melody and a simple beat. The stringed instrument plays, and the sailors stamp their boots and slap at the deck in time with the lyrics, creating a pulse and a drive. The words are nothing special. Crude and obscene, simple and rudimentary. But there’s a rhythm to it and a swing to the words that's catchy. A repeat and chorus that are simple to learn, sticks in your ear and refuses to leave.

The sailor's voices are rough and barely manage to find a common pitch. But they sing together with a happiness and a confidence that is a harmony in and of itself.

Throughout it all, he can hear Lance laughing. Can hear him join in on the choruses. Hear him hum his own harmonies that weave through the voices of the sailors.

Keith bobs his head along with it, legs swinging in time and nail tapping at the wood beneath him. He can't see Lance from his perch, but he can imagine his smile.

He stares straight ahead at the sea stretching out before them. The captain said they would be nearing Piltover soon. From there they find Lance's friends, and hopefully they can help them find information on recent visitors to the city. A vastaya would no doubt stand out.

The songs below continue, but Lance's voice disappears from the choir. Keith notices the absence instantly, and his ears swivel around, perking up to find him. Lance is very good at being silent when he wants to be. Keith will give him that. Were he sneaking up on anyone else, he would no doubt be successful. But he's trying to sneak up on Keith, and Keith feels his presence like a beacon of warmth in a cold, dark night.

He can feel the presence below him, the aura of Lance's magic soft and soothing. In Ionia, their dormant magic barely registers. It barely stands out amongst the wild magic permeating the air. But here, it comes off Lance in waves. Noticeable to anyone attuned to the music.

Knowing where he is, Keith can hear the creak and stretch of ropes. The faint rustling of feathers. He smiles, but he doesn't look as Lance climbs the ropes. As he pulls himself onto the crossbeam of the mast. As he dances along the wood and sits next to Keith with a flourish.

He sits closer than is strictly necessary. To where their fingers brush where they rest between them, arms causing sparks between them. Close enough that Keith feels Lance's wing flutter against his own. Large, rounded feathers against sleek and sharp ones. Lance's tail idly swings below them, occasionally brushing against Keith's ankle.

it's a closeness that once would have made him scowl and recoil, but now is one that he's come to expect. Come to accept. Perhaps even to crave.

"What're you doing perched up here like a seagull?" Lance asks, leaning over to bump his shoulder against Keith's.

Keith scoffs at the comparison, fighting the smile that threatens his lips. "Waiting."

"We should be there soon."

Keith hums, tilting his chin a little higher. Feeling the breeze across his skin. Letting the salt fill his lungs. He closes his eyes and feels the ocean. Feels it rock and sway beneath them. The power of it. A destructive force. Calm and cradling.

He feels exhilaration, but no fear. And that, in and of itself, is a high.

"Tell me about your friends. The ones in Piltover." He finds himself saying, eyes still closed and sun warm on his skin. "How did you meet them?"

"Oh man, Hunk and Pidge are _great_. I really think you're gonna like them. They were born and raised in Piltover, but they came to Ionia to do research on wild magic." Keith stiffens, an anxiousness shivering beneath his skin, but then Lance's hand moves over his, fingers resting overtop and between his own. "They're not bad, I promise. Trust me?"

"I do." He surprises himself by how much he means it.

"Piltover's been combining technology and magic for centuries, creating ways for people born without magic to use it. Hunk and Pidge told me that it's mostly done through magic harnessed in crystals, but no one has ever been able to harness Ionia's wild magic. They said stuff usually blows up when they try."

He can hear the pride in Lance's voice, his amusement and glee. It makes Keith smile.

"It's their own fault for trying to control something that's meant to be wild. Anyway, Hunk and Pidge were there to study it or do research or whatever. Now, I'm usually against Piltover scientists and their experiments in Ionia. They always end poorly for everyone involved, but they approached me after one of my performances, and I got to talking with them, and... they're actually really good people. They don't want to _use_ wild magic. They want to _understand_ it. They want to learn, and my instincts told me I could trust them, so... I taught them.

"I showed them temples and taught them the history of our magic, and I helped them with their experiments. Most of them failed, but some were successes. They said it was the first time any experiments with wild magic had worked, but they agreed that it was too powerful for others to know about. So they kept their research to themselves.

"Eventually they had to go home, and I had to move on, but I enjoyed my time with them, and I count them as two of my closest friends. They said they would come back one day, and I've been waiting to see them again." Keith opens his eyes and turns to him. He's smiling, but his eyes are sad as he gazes out over the ocean. "I miss them as I miss my family."

Keith shifts his hand until their fingers lot together easier. "How long were you with them?"

Lance tilts his head then, expression scrunching up in thought. "A few years? Two, perhaps three?"

That's... surprising. Time for them has little consequence, not the same way it does for humans. He's spent years in a haze, where events and time seem to blur past. Still, Lance has always struck him as restless. Never one to stay in one place for too long.

"How long has it been?"

Lance lifts one shoulder and lets it fall. "A couple more years."

Keith's fingers squeeze, then relax. He turns back to the ocean ahead of them. Feels the roll of the ship beneath them. The wind tugging and tangling his feathers with Lance's. With respect of the ocean comes the knowledge that he no longer fears it as he once had, and with that comes the exhilaration of fearlessness.

And it's with that fearlessness that he says, "They're important to you."

"Very." He can hear Lance's smile, but he doesn't turn to look at him.

"Would you have given them beads like the ones you gave me?" He can feel them in his hair. A strange weight that's growing increasingly familiar. A cool touch whenever it brushes his ear. A gentle buzzing if he focuses on it, like the echo of Ionian magic.

Lance is quiet for a long moment, and Keith lets him have the silence. His heart hammers in his chest, but it's not with fear. Exhilaration. Anticipation. The same thrill that he feels when he steps into battle. The knowledge that he's facing danger, the unknown, but trusting that he will be able to tread through it. It sings through his veins. A fire beneath his skin.

"No," Lance finally says. It's soft and wistful, lilting on the edges with a distant amusement. "No, I wouldn't have."

With adrenaline singing through his veins like flames, Keith asks the question that's been on his mind since the night Lance wove the beaded strand into his hair. The question that whispers in the back of his mind whenever he feels the beads touch his skin. The question that haunts him whenever he finds himself following the lines and curves of Lance's face, soft in sleep and bathed in moonlight.

"Are they a courting gift?"

Another silence. Seconds tick across Keith's skin. He feels them in each brush of the breeze through his feathers. He feels them in the rapid pulse in his throat. He feels it in the strain in his chest. But the anticipation doesn't feel sour, nor does he fear it.

He feels... breathless.

Lance hasn't moved away from him, nor has he pulled his fingers away from Keith's. His legs have stopped swinging, and he feels very, very still beside him. But Keith refuses to look. Keeps his eyes locked on the sea and the distant horizon.

He's afraid that if he looks, what he'll see will either break his heart or cause it to burst.

When Lance finally speaks, it's carefully blank. His words weighing heavily on his tongue. Pushing past his lips with careful and purposefully casual precision. "Depends."

Keith breathes, unaware that he hadn't been. "On what?"

"On what Shiro means to you."

Surprise and confusion coil through him, cutting through and dampening the building anticipation. He frowns, brows pinching as he tilts his head. He stares at Lance, but Lance's gaze remains ahead. His skin is warm in the sunlight. His hair windswept and wild. His nose tilts up at the end, perfect in profile. His chin and cheeks sharp. The markings on his face accenting his features.

"What does Shiro have to do with this?"

His face is relaxed. Calm despite his stillness. He dares to say Lance looks at peace. The wind tugs at him, but his body is still. His expression gentle. The eye of the storm. The edges of his lips lift in a smile that's heavy. Thick with melancholy even as humor hides at the edges.

"I've heard how you talk about him. I'm willing to fight for you, but if your heart is already given, I won't push." There's no blame there. No sorrow or dejection. No defeat and no triumph. He says it casually. Placing his cards on the table and bearing himself, giving Keith all the power to hurt him. He should've known that even when vulnerable, Lance is as graceful as ever. "If he's already yours, then the beads are just a gift between friends."

There. At the tail end of his words. Keith hears the tension. He sees it around Lance's eyes. Though he plays it off as he can, he can't completely hide his nervousness. His own fear. HIs own anticipation. His own doubts.

"And if he is? Would you..." Keith licks his lips, heart in his throat. His free hand digs his nails into the wood of the crossbeam. When he speaks, his words are soft enough to be lost on the wind. "Would you still stay with me?"

Lance's fingers curl tighter with his own. His tail wraps loosely around Keith's ankle, and his wing shifts closer to Keith's own, enveloping it. "Of course, I would. What'd I tell you before? You can't get rid of me that easily."

His smile is gentle, and the sorrow melts away. Keith believes him. Believes that Lance would stay. If not to be his mate, than to be his friend. And... that's all he needs to know.

He turns to look up at the sky. At the clouds that linger, fluffy and lazy on a field of blue. He leans into Lance. Feels the solid and sturdy weight of him as their shoulders and arms press together. Feels Lance lean into him, too. Electricity in his veins. Fire in his chest. A strength. His magic crackling across his skin, reacting to his own heightened emotions, Lance's nearness, and the adrenaline in his system.

"Shiro is... important to me. He's my family, and I love him. I would do anything for him, and I'll stop at nothing to save him." He says it slowly, carefully, choosing each word and feeling them form on his tongue. "But... he's not my mate."

He lifts his free hand, fingers finding the string of beads, glossing over the smooth surface of them. His nail traces over the ridges of the small, bird skull bead.

He tries to keep his smile down. Tries to keep himself composed, casual, and off-handed in his delivery. But his fight with his smile is a losing one. He can feel it tugging at the corners of his lips. Brought to life by the giddy and surreal sensation bubbling in his gut.

He never thought he'd ever meet someone who wanted to court him. Never thought he'd meet anyone he wanted to court.

Then he met Lance.

And like with everything else, Lance seems to open his eyes to new possibilities.

“I accept it as a courting gift." He sounds breathless, but he likes to think his giddiness is kept to a minimum. He can feel it though. Bubbling in his chest. Tingling across his skin.

He feels warmth against his temple. Smooth in texture. Just a little damp. Breath shifting across his skin.

It takes him two whole heartbeats to realize it's Lance's lips.

Another to formulate the word _kiss_.

By the fourth, his breath has hitched, locked in his throat as his heart stutters.

And by the fifth, Lance is gone from his side.

The chilling sea breeze rushes in to fill the empty space at his side, but it does little to cool his heated flesh. Lance is gone, but he can hear his laughter as he swings down the ropes back down to the deck of the ship. It dances on the wind and flits across his skin.

And then Keith laughs, letting the wind sweep the sound away.

 

* * *

 

As the coast of piltover rises on the horizon, Lance drags Keith to the deck. Keith chases after him, hot on his heels and heart beating wildly in his chest.

Together they climb, scrambling up the ropes that rise up from deck to mast. They cling to them, holding on and leaning out over the waves. Keith can hear them crashing below as she ship cuts through them, can feel the salt spray cool against his skin. They spread their wings, feeling the breeze comb through their feathers, spreading out behind them like cloaks.

In the distance, the cliffs come into view. The space where the northern and southern continents meet. Tall cliffs that face off as the ocean strait cuts between them. Land that Keith has never seen. He knows it won't feel the same as the wilds of Ionia, but he's thrilled to see it nonetheless.

Lance's hand slides over his, fingers curling between his own where they grip the rope.

He turns, catching Lance's wild grin, eyes manic and sparkling. Keith finds himself smiling until his cheeks ache with it. Until his lungs scream for air. Lance laughs, sound bubbling like freedom, swept away in the wind and the crashing waves.

Keith laughs with him, feeling light. Feeling wild. The wind lifts beneath his wing, and he feels like if he jumped, he could fly.

 

* * *

 

The approach is swift, but Keith's anxiousness makes time crawl by. He stays with Lance, wedged in the ropes and watching the strange new continents rise before them, growing with every sluggish second.

The strait widens as they approach, and the ship's bow aims right for it. There are other ships in the distance, their sails white and billowing among the sea of blue. Keith's gaze is turned upward as they enter the strait. It's wide enough that the cliff walls are each a good distance apart, and there's no danger of crashing. But they rise high above, looming and ominous. Birds fly ahead. Animals run across the tops. Goats climb down the rocky outcrops. More ships pass as they near the harbor.

The breath leaves his lungs when Piltover comes into view.

Built upon a natural bridge that connects the cliffs of each continent, reinforced with man made structures, Piltover overlooks the strait as a beacon of glittering gold and copper. It's much, much larger and denser than he had imagined from a city built upon a bridge.

But the natural bridge is wide. The city is a cluster of buildings of all shapes and sizes, glittering and refracting the daylight. It spreads across the bridge and spills out to both cliffsides. Despite being a beacon of human ingenuity and construction, despite being a place where technology reigns and the natural resources of life have been driven away, it's strangely beautiful.

Below Piltover, another city spreads. Crawling along the cliffsides, down to the water's edge. Living in the shadow of the beacon of gold and copper. Buildings carved into the cliffs and built upon them on rickety structures. Bridges and ropes strung between the two sides. The under-city of Zaun. From what he's overheard from the sailors, it's the shadow of PIltover, where the poor and rejected sciences go.

The progress of Piltover is built on the backs of those struggling to survive in Zaun, and Keith shivers as his gaze roams the shadows among the cliffsides.

It is far too familiar a concept. Far too dark a place.

The ship, however, doesn't fully reach the shadows of Zaun crawling down from the beacon of Piltover. The Piltover docks begin far before they reach the natural bridge of the city. Perhaps a mile away, a dockside city is built against the northern cliffside. A harbor filled with docks that crawl out into the strait like vines. Ships rest along them, of all shapes an sizes. Buildings stack at the coast and climb up the cliff, creating somewhat of a path-like city toward the top where Piltover resides.

The ship slides into port, docking as sailors scramble around the deck below and the captain shouts orders. Keith barely pays them any heed, gaze on the cities crawling and sprawling above him. It's all so large and imposing, far more than any city on Ionia.

It makes him feel small, and there's no wild magic in the land to give him comfort.

He never thought he'd wish for the open sea again, but he'd take the wilds of the ocean to the metal and stone city scape built upon technology that harnessed foreign magic.

Lance, however, has no such reservations.

The moment the ship is docked, he's clambering down the ropes. Keith follows after him, slower and far more cautious, eyeing the docks and the people bustling around the harbor town beyond. They say goodbye to the captain, thank him for the journey, and ask how long he'll be in port. If they manage to come back in a few days, they can catch a ride home.

Then Lance is sprinting towards the gangplank, practically skipping down it and spinning with a flourish when he reaches the dock. Keith watches from the ship, a small ghost of a smile on his lips as he watches.

Lance plants his hands on his hips, stance wide and back straight, wing flared out behind him, tail lifted and poised. "Come on, Keith!" He shouts, grin on his lips and mischief in his eyes. "Not _scared_ , are you?"

Keith's smile gets a bite to it, eyes narrowing just a fraction. He walks down the gangplank with far more poise and control than Lance had. When he reaches the docks, Lance moves forward to meet him. Grabbing him by the hand, he spins Keith around, shifting them together to wrap an arm around his waist. Keith surrenders himself to Lance's grasp, twisting on his toes as Lance spins them around.

Their wings flare out together, spinning with them. Flashes of blues and purples and pinks. When they stop, Lance dips him a little, grinning as he hovers over Keith. "Welcome to Piltover," He whispers, voice low and private.

Despite himself, despite his nerves and his reservations, Keith feels a smile tug at the corner of his lips. "I can't feel any magic here. The earth and air are barren, and it reeks of humans and metal."

"I know," Lance says, eyes crinkling at the edges and a laugh in his voice. "It's terrible. Isn't it fantastic?"

Keith exhales sharply, a quick huff of a laugh. "How is that fantastic?"

Lance leans forward, pressing his forehead to Keith's. His eyes are so large, filling Keith's vision. Blue and stormy, swirling like the sea. Wide and gleaming. Wild and chaotic. He can feel Lance's breath on his lips. Goosebumps stand out on his skin. "It's a new adventure, Keith. The madness of man like we've never known. Don't fear them, Keith. They're blind and deaf and mere children on this earth."

He laughs then, straightening and unfurling Keith from his grasp. He lets go, letting Keith spin away from him, wing flaring and steps light and graceful as he comes to a stop, feathers settling back around him. Lance stands there, still poised with is fingertips outstretched, other hand held aloft. He grins, and Keith can feel the wild magic in him. Can see it in his smirk and in his eyes. In his feathers and dancing across his skin.

He is magic.

He's a piece of Ionia.

A piece of home.

"Gaze upon them and feel pity, for they'll never know the freedom of our chaos."

At that, Keith feels himself grin.

As they move into the harbor town beneath Piltover, Keith lets Lance lead. He seems immune to the stares. Immune to the weight of them. Ionians, at least, are used to seeing vastaya. These people clearly are not. For many of them, he's sure they're the first vastaya they've ever seen. They stare, unabashed and openly, whispering amongst themselves.

Lance moves through them like water, trailing his feathers like a cloak, moving proudly into their stares rather than pull away from them. Keith follows in his wake. He holds himself tall, feeling their eyes but refusing to allow them to make him bend. He feels strangely confident in the clothes Lance has given him, showing off aspects of himself that he had previously hidden from human eyes. He doesn't hide his ears, nor his feathers, nor his feet, nor his face.

He feels... strong. Powerful. He is vastaya. He is the heart of Ionia. He is wild magic, and wild magic lives in him.

Watching Lance weave through the crowds, watching him dance through gazes and put himself on display, preening at the attention, grin warm and welcoming, a beacon of beauty and wildness amongst the order and structure, Keith realizes that his newfound confidence may come from within, but it was Lance who lit that flame.

Lance turns, catching sight of Keith in the crowd, through the space of parted bodies between them. He smiles, hair windswept, skin glowing in the sun, feathers catching the light and claiming it as their own.

There's a light in his eyes and a softness around his features when their gazes meet, and Keith begins to realize that perhaps, to Lance, _Keith_ is a beacon of strength, familiarity, and home.

And that, in and of itself, makes him feel stronger.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ There's wildness in the bees and the flowers - It's just a fury humans don't see ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

"Are you sure this is the right way?" Keith asks as they push through the undergrowth.

The trees here are strange. Silent giants that rise imposingly over the cliffsides. Quiet guardians that crawl across the landscape beyond the influence of Piltover. Keith touches their trunks as he passes, feels the bark rough and ridged beneath his fingertips. It's strange because he expected this continent to feel dead. He expected it to feel like an empty husk compared to the rich and vivid landscape of Ionia. He expected it to feel lifeless.

But once they've left the stone buildings and clatter of technology behind, once they're beyond the realm of people where the landscape is allowed to grow wild and free, he can feel it. He feels the magic and energy of life in the trees. He feels it in the earth beneath his feet and vibrating in the air. It takes him a while to notice, and had Lance not taught him how to listen to the sea, he might not have felt it at all.

It's faint. So much fainter than it is in Ionia. But it's there. Dull and muted. Like music heard through layers. Trapped and distant, but there. A silent orchestra that's unfamiliar and new. A reprise of a song that's familiar played by a different set of instruments. He can't _hear_ the music, but he can feel it. Dull. Muted. Trapped. But there. It's _there._

And it responds to his touch. It responds to the magic in his veins, seeping out through his touch. When he hums beneath his breath, he can feel the magic locked away in the earth respond. A distant echo that he feels in his core.

He can hear Lance humming, too, and he knows Lance can also feel it. But Lance has always heard the music far more clearly than Keith has.

But Keith is learning how to listen.

Lance scrambles up an outcropping of rock, turning to hold out his hand. Keith doesn't need the help, but he smiles anyway, allowing himself to enjoy how Lance's hand feels in his. Lance pulls him up. Stands perhaps too close. Still holding Keith's hand, loose but lingering, his other hand settles on his hip.

He leans in, tilting his head in a way that makes Keith tilt his, too. Makes his breath catch in his throat as Lance smiles, eyes lidded and content. "I have absolutely no idea where we're going." There's a thrill in his voice, one that sings of adventure and hums across Keith's skin.

Keith feels his smile in his cheeks, tugging at his lips. "You're going to get us lost on an entirely foreign continent."

"Where's your sense of adventure, Keith?"

"I think it drowned at sea."

Lance chuckles, and Keith can feel his breath fanning out across his cheeks. "Come on," He says, stepping away from Keith. Their hands stay connected until he's out of reach, fingers slipping from each other. "They said that Pidge and Hunk live around here in the middle of no where. Where here, and it looks like no where. They should be close."

Lance runs up the rest of the rock and leaps, grabbing onto a branch from a nearby tree and swinging himself down to the ground. He lands gracefully in a plume of feathers before hopping back to his feet, pushing onward.

"How do you know they were telling the truth?" Keith asks, following his example.

"I don't, but we heard it from several sources, and not all humans lie."

"They're prone to it."

"Not about something this mundane. I choose to have faith." He pushes through thick undergrowth, weaving around throned bushes and leaping over fallen logs. There's not much of a path this far away from civilization. And if there is one, it's not one they've found or choose to follow.

"I don't," Keith mumbles, trailing his fingers along the leaves of a waist high bush, feeling the silent melody as the foliage sways.

Lance spins then, waking backwards as he faces Keith. "But you have faith in _me_ , right?"

Keith's smile is small and slight, the hint of one rather than one that can stand on its own. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't."

Lance's smile is lopsided, dancing more in his eyes than on his lips. "Good."

They push onwards. After several hours of scouring the harbor town and the city streets that climbed up the cliffside toward Piltover, gossiping and asking around, they finally learned that Pidge and Hunk currently lived in a cabin along the clifftops, far from Piltover toward inlet to the sea proper. Lance had done the talking while Keith followed him as a silent shadow, watching the faces of those around him, ears alert and twitching with every sound.

Logically, he knew there were no galra here. They had no power this far from Ionia. But habits die hard, and galra aren't the only dangers they face. Ignorance and fearful humans are just as dangerous in their own ways.

He's eased considerably since they moved out of sight of the looming golden city. And more tension melts out of him with every inch of space put between themselves and the city. The forest is quiet, but wild in its own right. He prefers it to the din of civilization and the heavy stares of strangers.

"There! Keith, look!" Lance darts forward, weaving between trees and falling to a crouch behind a line of brush, hidden in the shadows of the forest. Keith hurries to his side, hunched over and sinking into a crouch at Lance's side. He hovers close as Lance reaches forward, shifting the leaves in front of them aside.

The forest doesn't so much end as it slowly tapers away. Trees and brush and undergrowth give way to an open field. Tall grasses and flowers that spread out from the forest, slowly giving way to dirt and rock before the cliffside falls away from the earth. Ahead of them, on a section of the cliff that seems to protrude outwards before curling back in and continuing onward.

It's on that protrusion that a home is built. A crude looking cabin, ramshackle but somehow still well cared for. Extensions have been built onto it, pieces that look mismatched. A strange marriage between a rustic cabin and the technological architecture of Piltover. Things litter the yard around the cabin, tools and bits of metal and wire, wood and boxes. Metal rods stick out from the roof, and there's a hum of energy emanating from the cabin that's not natural.

Keith leans into Lance, muttering under his breath while his eyes remain fixed on the cabin, searching for any sign of movement. "Are you sure that's their home?"

"Nope. Let's go find out." Lance stands up abruptly, already pushing through the foliage and into the clearly. Keith reacts more on reflex than anything, grabbing Lance's tail and yanking him back down. He yelps, landing heavily on his ass next to Keith, bushes left rattling and swaying.

Keith claps a hand over Lance's mouth, and he glares at him over the top of it.

Keith's own glare is unflinching. " _You're_ the one who tells _me_ not to charge in recklessly," He hisses. A sound of rustling catches his attention, his ears pivoting and swirling toward the sound. His head snaps to the side, eyes searching the clearing.

He feels fingers on his wrist, gentle but firm as they curl around. His attention snaps back to Lance, and he can see his eyes crinkling, dancing in the light that sifts through the leaves above. He can feel Lance's lopsided smirk beneath his palm.

Lance pulls his hand away, just enough to speak. Just enough that Keith can feel his breath slide between his fingers and his lips brush against his palm, even through his gloves. "So you _do_ listen to me."

His voice is low, coiling heat in Keith's chest. He scowls, but Lance's smirk only widens.

"Hunk, was that you?"

Their heads snap to the side at the unfamiliar voice. Keith's eyes focus in on movement on the cabin's flat roof. A bob of unruly copper hair, moving around, appearing at the edge of the roof. A pale face. A gleam of glasses nestled on their nose.

Keith hunches down, pulling his wing back to hide his colors in the shadows. But Lance sits up straighter, tail swishing behind him. Keith has just enough time to register Lance's feathers fluffing up before he tosses Keith's wrist aside, leaps to his feet, and darts through the bushes.

Keith scrambles to catch him, but his tail feathers slip through his fingers as he tries.

" _Lance!_ " He hisses, but he's already gone.

Keith watches, mildly mortified, as Lance sprits across the clearing, cutting through the waist high grass like a blue arrow, feathers catching the late afternoon sunlight. "Pidge!" He shouts, and Keith winces. He reaches the cabin quickly, long legs carrying him far and fast. He drops his bag and belongings to the ground before he’s leaps up a pile of crates, steps graceful and light as air, wing bobbing as he lands and leaps again.

Then he's scrambling up the side of the cabin, grabbing onto the edge of the roof, and throwing himself on top of it.

" _Pidge!_ "

A high pitched shout follows Lance's exclamation. One that loosely resembles Lance's name and several curses. Lance disappears as he throws himself forward, wing fluttering in his wake.

Heaving a heavy sigh, Keith hurries after him. He follows in the wake Lance left in the grass, easing into the parted crease. He stays low, fingers itching warily and wing trailing sleek and low behind him. Anxiousness crawls beneath his skin as he has to step out from the grass, and he pauses. But he can still hear Lance's voice and one other, and while that other voice sounds disgruntled, they don't sound hostile.

So he takes a deep breath and straightens, stepping out of the grass and slowly approaching the house. He stops near the front door, close to where Lance scaled the outer wall, and tilts his head back.

"Lance?" There's shuffling and muted voices. Keith frowns, brows furrowing as he tries a little louder. “ _Lance?_ ”

A head pokes out over the edge of the roof. Lance, grin wide and beaming. Hair wild and tousled more than usual. "Keith!" He disappears for a second, and when he returns, another face is pulled out alongside him.

They're much smaller, copper hair sticking up at all sorts of angles that make Lance's look neat. Their glasses are large and round, sliding down their petite nose. Freckles dance across pale cheekbones. Amber eyes wide and inquisitive, sparking with an intelligence and clarity that Keith isn't used to seeing among humans.

They grab the frame of their glasses, lifting it higher up their nose as their lips part, utter a soft and awed, "Whoa."

"Yeah," Lance says, voice just a hair too soft as he tilts his head to the side, smile becoming fond. "That's what I thought when I first met him, too."

Heat flushes under Keith's skin, rising like a storming tide up the back of his neck, settling with crashing waves onto his cheeks.

He opens his mouth to respond, though he's not sure with what, when the door to the cabin abruptly opens.

Reflexes and instinct take over, molded through years of living on his own. He leaps back, lands on his toes, sliding them through the dirt as he widens his stance. He drops into a crouch, wing flaring out behind him, as much a show of power as to get his feathers close enough to grab. One hand hovers in front of him defensively, fingers splayed and claws on display. His other hand wraps around himself, hovering near his feathers and fingertips crackling with energy. His magic sparks and ignites, crackling like lightning between his splayed feathers.

He grits his teeth, ears turned back as his eyes narrow on the man standing in the doorway of the cabin.

He's large, filling up the entire doorway. Broad shoulders and broad chest. Thick arms and thick legs. Broad face with a wide nose. Dark skin and darker hair. An orange headband tied across his forehead. Large brown eyes.

He stares at Keith, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. Keith registers the remaining movement as he jerks to a stop. Watches as the tray of food in his hands clatters to the ground. Watches as his hands shoot up, palm out and fingers wide. Defenseless. Surprised. Submissive. Despite his size, he seems to hunch, flinching back from Keith, as if making himself small.

A moment of silence passes. A breeze rolling up from the straight and over the edge of the cliff plays with their hair, skirting around Keith's feathers.

The tall grass sways behind him, rustling playfully with the leaves of distant trees.

From far, far below, Keith can hear the mumbled roar of the ocean.

Before either of them can react, a blur of blue and brown falls between them. Lance lands on his feet, crouched low before straightening abruptly. He throws his arms wide, wing splayed and tail lifted. "Hunk!"

Over Lance's shoulder, he can see the larger man blink. One. Twice. Rapidly. Mouth opening and closing. His brows furrow. "Lance?"

Lance doesn't miss a beat, nor does his enthusiasm wane. "I'm here!"

Quickly, the confusion melts from the larger man's face. It seeps out of him quickly as excitement barrels in the wake. He stands straighter, arms flying out to the sides. His face lights up, grin wide and toothy, eyes alight and sparkling in the sun. "You're here!"

" _I’m here!_ "

" _You're here!_ "

They move more forward, meeting in the space between. Arms wrap around each other. Lance is lifted off his feet and spun around by the other man. His feathers a blue blur. They both laugh, deep and rich, light and lilting.

Slowly, Keith straightens. He releases his hold on his magic, letting the crackling fire recede back into his veins. It sinks back between his feathers, and they relax, falling together once more as his wing sinks back down against his back. His hands fall to his sides, twitching and restless, but no longer on edge.

He watches the two. Ears twitching. Weight shifting between his feet. Tongue poking at his fangs. He waits, uncertain what to do with himself.

"Hey!" Keith's ears perk forward. The two stop spinning. All three of them look up to where the small one is sitting at the edge of the roof above, feel dangling in open air. "Sorry to break up the bromance, but help me down, wouldya?"

Lance steps away from the other, holding his arms out. "Jump!"

"You can't be serious."

"Fly, little Pidgeon!"

For a moment, Keith doesn't think they will. They level Lance with a flat, blank look that he's all too familiar with. But then he sees the corners of their lips curl into a cat-like smirk. That, too, Keith is familiar with. Lance's ability to draw that joy out of people, whether they want him to or not.

Without another word, they jump. With nothing but easy faith, they fall, and Lance catches them. He ducks a bit with the momentum, shifting it and redirecting it as he twirls around in place.

He sets them down and spins to face Keith, grin wide and beaming, bright as the sun itself. "Keith!" He drapes an arm over the bigger man's shoulders, leaning into his arm. He pats the man's chest. "This is Hunk, and this—" He reaches out, snagging the smaller one with his other arm, wrapping it around their shoulders and pull them into his side. "And this is Pidge."

He disentangles from them, practically dancing across the space between them to Keith's side. Then it's Keith under the weight of his arm, being pulled to his side. His wing shifts just so, just barely laying overtop Keith's. It's as comforting as it is grounding. "Guys," He says, voice noticeably softer. Noticeably more breathless. Causing heat to continue to simmer beneath Keith's skin. "This is Keith."

Pidge lifts their hand. "Hiya."

Hunk does the same, smile sheepish. "Hey. Sorry about startling you. I didn't know you'd be there." His eyes flicker to Lance's. "Either of you."

"Yeah, why _are_ you here?" PIdge asks, crossing their arms over their chest, weight shifting to one hip. " _How_ did you get here?"

Lance exhales a short snort of a laugh, leaning into Keith as he crosses one foot over the other, digging his toes into the dirt. "We sailed here, of course."

"But like, how did you find us _here?_ " They ask, spreading their arms to gesture to the cliffside house.

Lance just grins. "You guys aren't exactly subtle. All I had to do was ask around for a tall, dark, and handsome genius and a small, gremlin of a mad scientist."

"Not that this isn't a cool surprise and everything, cause it is." Hunk presses his fingertips together, eyes darting between them all. "And we haven't seen you in like, forever, and we've missed you a lot. Even Pidge."

"Don't drag me into this."

"You have. Don't deny it."

"Aw, Pidge, you missed me." Lance's smirk is far too bright, and Pidge sticks their tongue out at him as Hunk continues.

"So I'm super happy to see you, but like... what're you doing here? I know we told you that you can visit whenever, but the timing is..."

"Weird," Pidge supplies.

Hunk nods, snapping his fingers and pointing to them. "Yeah, weird."

Lance tilts his head to the side. Keith can feel his hair brush against his ear. He crosses his arms over his chest, unsure what else to do with them. He glances sideways at Lance to see him narrowing his eyes between Hunk and Pidge. His smile presses into a slight frown. "Weird how?"

Hunk glances at Pidge, and they exchange a look that Keith can't read. Something silent passes between them. Between the way they purse their lips and between the ways their expressions pinch, eyes saying words their voices don't.

After a moment, Pidge shrugs. "We were gonna tell him anyway."

"Yeah, but what about..." Hunk's eyes dart to him, and Keith stiffens.

Pidge waves off his concern. "If Lance trusts him, then so do I."

Hunk sighs, scratching the back of his neck while he gestures vaguely with his free hand. "So, we were actually planning on going back to Ionia soon. With Pidge's brother and his... friend. We were gonna find you when we got there— I have _no_ idea how, but we were gonna look for you. We need your help finding someone."

"That's... actually why we're here." Lance shifts at his side. Keith glances at him to find his smile gone. Faded into something more serious. Light in his eyes still there, but sharpened. Keith looks down, shifting his wing further beneath Lance's. It's a minute gesture. Small. Barely blending their feathers together. But Lance's arm tightens around him. "We're looking for someone. We heard that they left on a ship traveling to Piltover, and we don't know anything about this city. I told him that you could help."

"We'd love to, buddy." Hunk's voice is gentle and kind. Genuine in a way that he's only heard from Lance in a long, long time. It unravels a tight knot that Keith's been holding in his chest. Eases it inch by inch.

"Yeah," PIdge says, and while it's still light and indifferent, there's a care in it that they can't quite hide. "We've got a few days before we're ready to leave anyway. We can help you look around."

"Who're you looking for, anyway?"

Keith looks up then, lips pursed as he meets their gazes. "My brother." He hates the way his voice cracks. Just slightly. Barely noticeable. But he hears it. He clears his throat, lifting his chin a little higher. He feels Lance's tail against the back of his legs. "We're looking for my brother. He's been imprisoned for..."

It occurs to him then that he doesn't know just _how long_ Shiro has been gone. Years. Decades. Centuries? Until he met Lance, time moved in a haze. A fog that he drifted through without definition. One rumor lead to the next. One fight lead to the next. He told time in bruises. In clues. In chased gossip and moments of disappointment.

Even now, he can't remember exactly how long it's been. He didn't want to think about time. Time held no meaning until it held the weight of days between seeing Lance again. It held no meaning until Keith learned to appreciate the sunrise and the sunset and the moments of stars in between.

He doesn't know how long Shiro's been gone or how long he's been alone. He only knows it's been too long.

He sighs, eyes dropping to the dirt at their feet. "He's been imprisoned by the galra for... a long, long time."

When his words fail him, Lance is there to pick up the pieces. "Keith's been looking for him for years, and we figured out what coliseum he's been held at. We freed the prisoners, but he wasn't there. We heard some rebels busted him out a couple weeks ago, and they escaped on a ship for Piltover before the galra could catch them."

Pidge's eyebrows rise high, blinking owlishly as their lips press into a thin line. "Rebels?"

"A coliseum?" Hunk echoes.

They look at each other, another moment of silent understanding passing between them. When they look back, their eyes are more skeptical, gazes narrowed as they look Keith over. He bristles under their inspection.

"Your... brother?" Hunk's eyes drift to Lance, but PIdge's remain sharp and calculating. Keith meets them without flinching.

"Yes."

"Does he look like you?" Pidge asks, voice strangely neutral and casual beyond normalcy. "Same feather color and all that?"

Lance snorts, and Keith feels the touch of a smile. "No."

"They don't look anything alike," Lance says, then pauses, turning a thoughtful gaze to Keith. "Actually, I have no idea what he looks like." He shrugs, shifting his focus back to the others, an easy smile on his lips. "But he's not a Lhotlan vastaya. He's Marmora born."

"Yeaaaah," Hunk lifts an eyebrow, raising his hands in a helpless gesture. "I don't know what that means, buddy."

"Right," Lance laughs. "He doesn't have wings. He has like... cat ears. A cat-like tail. Cat-like legs." He turns to Keith, silently asking for confirmation, and Keith nods.

"What's his name?" Pidge asks abruptly, gaze never leaving Keith's. It sounds almost like a challenge.

Keith's eyes narrow. "Shiro."

Slowly, inch by inch, their lips curl upward at the corners, settling into a wicked looking smirk. It lifts their cheeks and sets fire to their eyes. The amber depths of their irises dance behind their glasses, catching the afternoon light and turning it to fire.

In that moment, they look wild. Unkempt. A child of the sun and of chaos.

In that moment, Keith decides he likes them.

 

* * *

 

"Pidge, slow down!" Lance calls, scrambling down over the rocks to cut a corner on the ramshackle path cut into the cliffside. He drops to where the steps curve back around, landing just behind Pidge as they sprint down the steps.

Arms held out for balance, they run. Eyes on their feet. Steps sporadic but confident. As if they've run down this path a hundred times before. It zig-zags down the cliffside from their cabin home, trailing down to another building halfway down the cliff, nestled on a large ledge jutting out over the sea. The path itself is half natural, and half crudely cut into the rock side.

"Like you can't keep up!" They call over their shoulder, and sure enough, Lance is hot on their heels. He gracefully leaps from rocks surrounding the path, wing and tail feathers drifting behind him. There's far more showmanship and flare than is strictly needed.

Keith leaps over the rocks to the stairs below, following after Lance. He could easily overtake them both, but he doesn't. He stays behind Lance, eyes locked on the spritely human leading them.

"Yeah, but I can't!" Hunk calls from above. He huffs, breath heavy as he runs after them, taking the whole route by the steps rather than cutting corners.

"Where are we going?" Keith asks, loud enough for Pidge to hear.

"You'll see!"

"Nuh-uh, no you don't." Lance darts forward. With sudden agile speed, cutting through the air where he was previously simply drifting on it, sharp as a whip, he catches up to Pidge and snatches them off their feet.

"Lance, let me go!"

He holds them by the collar of their shirt, forcing them to stop lest they lose their balance. "Nope, not until you tell us where we're going." He turns them both to face Keith, who slows to a stop.

PIdge pouts, hunched over with their arms crossed over their chest. "I want it to be a surprise."

"You know what happens when I try to surprise Keith? He tries to stab me." He sounds strangely proud of that.

When Pidge looks at him, wary but mostly curious, Keith just crosses his arms over his chest and shrugs.

"Oh god," Hunk says, coming to a stop. He pants heavily, bending at the waist to put his hands on his knees, head hanging low. "I hate these steps. I hate them so much."

"So," Lance says, hand still clenched into the fabric of Pidge's shirt. "Where are you taking us?"

Pidge rolls their eyes, gesturing to the building below. The ledge down the cliff is large, dwarfing the building that looks simpler but larger than the one above. More boxes and crates and tools litter the sparse grass around the building. "To the workshop."

Lance eyes the building suspiciously, narrowing his eyes as he looks out over the edge of the steps. "What's down there?"

"Pidge, can't we just tell them?" Hunk straightens, putting his hands on his lower back to stretch.

"But..." They look distraught, caught between a pout and pleading. "The _surprise_ factor."

"It's gonna be a surprise either way."

Keith feels a bristling beneath his skin. Wariness of the unknown simmering beneath the surface as old instincts come shining through. Lance may trust these people, and he may trust Lance, but that doesn't mean he trusts them.

"What's down there?" He asks, voice sharp and clipped. Far more than he intended, but it's edged by an anxiousness built upon experience.

It gets their attention, at least. Pidge and Hunk look at him with varying degrees of worry before they exchange glances. Pidge's stubborn and Hunk's pointed.

Pidge cracks first. Throwing their hands up in the air with a huff. "Fine!"

Hunk breathes a sigh, turning to Keith with a small smile as his arms cross over his chest. "So a couple weeks ago, Pidge's brother came back. He was gone for _years_. Him and Pidge's dad were studying properties of crystals that grow in northern Ionia when they disappeared. We tried to find them, but... we couldn't."

Keith glances at Pidge, but their eyes are on the ground. Arms crossed tightly and shoulder's hunched. Their face is crunched and closed off, and he knows that look. He knows it because he's felt it. An ache in his chest throbs.

Lance's grip leaves their shirt, arm stretching out to wrap around them. He looks sympathetic, compassionate, but not surprised.

Pidge sighs, and the breath of it shudders. "Everyone said they were gone. Lost at sea or some other bullshit. But I knew they were alive. I _knew_ it."

"We couldn't find them, and we ran out of funding from the institute to support our research out there. When we got back, we kinda... dropped out of the institute and moved out here to continue research on our own."

"They can't know the secrets of wild magic. It's too dangerous, and I don't trust them." Their face hardens, sparks in their eyes, venom on their tongue.

Hunk nods. "Yeah, so we've been out here ever since. And a few weeks ago, we were down at the harbor for supplies when Matt showed up! It was crazy, like... so random. But we found him wandering around, looking older and more rugged and stuff, and he had a vastaya with him—"

Keith's breath audibly catches in his throat. His eyes snap to Lance. He looks just as startled. Standing rigid as the wind plays with his feathers. Eyes wide and sharp as they meet Keith's.

He spins on Hunk, taking a step forward. The man startles, taking a step back as his hands go up defensively. "What did he look like?"

"I, uh—" His eyes dart to Lance and Pidge before returning to Keith, wide and skittish.

Keith takes another step forward, and Hunk another step back. "Was it Shiro?"

"It was— well, he said—"

"He said his name is Shiro." Keith whirls, eyes locking with Pidge's. They stand taller now. Their lips pressed into that thin, serious line, but the light in their eyes dance with excitement like flames. Keith's heart hammers in his chest, loud and ringing in his ears. "He wanted us to take him back to Ionia to help him look for his little brother. Some vastaya called Keith."

Anticipation prickles beneath his skin like needles. His chest is too tight and his stomach in knots. Fire in his veins, crackling like magic.

His breath comes out in a rush, squeezed from his lungs with an ache made fresh. "He's here?" He sounds small. Breathless. Vulnerable in all the ways he hates, but in this moment, he can't bring himself to care.

Pidge's eyes flicker down to the workshop below. Before they have time to say anything, Keith is running.

They're halfway down the cliffside to the ledge below, and the zig-zagging steps would take too long. So Keith jumps. His feet plant on the edge of the ledge lining the steps and he leaps. He hears his name being called, but he can barely hear it over the ringing n his ears and the pounding of his heart.

His fall is controlled. Wind fluttering in his feathers. Wing splayed wide to slow his decent. Magic crackles across his skin, humming like a live wire in his veins. The air catches him. Cradles him. Holds him aloft in the way it always has. Gravity pulls him down, but it's a gentle tug.

He lands on the balls of his feet in sparse, crackled grass. His toes dig into the dirt, and he's on his feet. He's running. Sprinting toward the front of the workshop. To the door of the building. There's windows, but he barely glances inside. They're barriers. He's tired of barriers.

He slams into the door, momentum refusing to slow. He fumbles with the doorknob, hands shaking and teeth clenched in his impatience.

Then the door is thrown open, and he falls into the workshop. He stumbles several steps, hand still gripping the door. Eyes wild as he looks around. The room is filled with things. So many things. Things that at another time, he would enjoy taking in. Right now, however, his gaze locks onto the two people in the room.

They both jump at his arrival, spinning around to face him. One sits at a workbench, one hand braced on the table and the other on the bench behind him, one knee bent and pulled toward him, leaning away from Keith. He looks like Pidge. Older. Taller. Lankier. Longer hair, but the same color and shaggy quality. Same eyes. Scar on his face.

The the other stands in front of him, putting himself between the two of them. Half crouched. Fingers and claws splayed wide . Lips curls back. Eyes narrowed.

For years, decades, centuries, time has moved in a haze. Feeling like he's wading through water. Movements sluggish and air thick. Time has slipped through his fingers while he's lingered in a haze.

Then Lance came along, and time snapped into focus. He felt the time in days. Hours. Minutes. Seconds. Moments that he can relive in sharp clarity. For the first time in a long time, he found himself living in the present. Moving with time the way he's supposed to.

Here and now, however, time stops completely.

It halts. Frozen in the space between seconds. He feels his feathers held aloft, held in a state without gravity as time ceases to exist. He lingers in the dead space. In a moment caught between breaths. Between heartbeats. His eyes lock with Shiro's, and everything else fades to nothingness.

He's different than Keith remembers. Stronger. Bigger. His ears have notches torn out. His hair is long and tied back behind him. A streak of white runs through what used to be solid black. A scar pales and pinkens the skin across his nose and cheeks. Far more scars mar visible skin than Keith remembers.

He's missing his right arm, cut off above the elbow.

His eyes are sharper. Wilder. Far more primal than they used to be.

But he's Shiro. Shiro, standing in front of him. Free and alive. In the flesh. Missing parts, but whole. Whole and here and _alive_.

He doesn't know what expression he wears, but slowly, painfully slowly, he watches Shiro's expression change.

He watches realization pierce through him. Watches it melt his scowl away. Watches his eyes widen and jaw go slack. Watches his lips part as he straightens slowly. Watches as the hostility drains out of him.

Watches as those silver eyes light up.

Feels that same light burn through his chest. Feels it crackle out along his veins.

"Keith..." HIs voice is rough and cracked, breathless and strained. But it's _his_ voice. The one Keith remembers. The one he's needed to hear for so long.

And all at once, time snaps into place.

He sprints forward, throwing himself at Shiro. They rock with the momentum, but they stay standing. Shiro holds firm as Keith's knees threaten to give way. HIs arms warp around his middle, and Shiro's arm wraps around him. Holding him tight. Holding him close.

He smells the same. He feels the same. His magic crackles along his skin, reaching out and mingling with Keith's in a way that's so incredibly _familiar_.

His chest feels full. Too full. Where it's been empty for years, an aching void that's become almost comforting in its familiarity, is now full. For far too long, he had nothing. Nothing but himself. No one. Now he has Lance. Now he has _Shiro_.

His chest is too full, and then the bubble pops.

He buries his face in the crook of Shiro's shoulder, and there, hidden from the world, he lets himself cry.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ Magic isn't supposed to be safe ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

In his lifetime, Keith has seen many sunsets and many sunrises. He's seen them in nearly every corner of Ionia. He's seen them in the mountains and over the seas. He's seen them in forests and over valleys. He's always been under the impression that Ionian sunrises were the most beautiful, but sitting here, on a foreign continent with Shiro for the first time in centuries, Keith starts to think that Ionia has some competition.

They sit together on the cliffside, far enough from Pidge and Hunk's home that their space is private, but still well within view of it. Neither of them felt comfortable being out of sight of the others.

They sit with their legs dangling over the edge, feet hanging out in open air. Keith can feel the rising sea breeze between his toes, caressing his skin, combing through his feathers.

They watch as the light of the rising sun begins to dawn on the horizon. Watch as the light bleeds out over the open ocean. Watch as it begins to paint the dark sea in shades of blue. They watch as the stars begin to fade, and as the shadows of the night sky begin to recede, chased away by the dawning light.

It's a slow transition. One that's easy to miss if one were not paying attention. The grayscale of the night melts away, leaving etchings of color in its wake that slowly saturate the world as the sun begins to crest over the sea.

Keith is tired. A bone deep weariness that settles deep in his core. It makes his body heavy and his limbs leaden. His eyes feel dry and weary, and an ache persists deep between the fibers of his muscles. But there's a buzz tingling across his skin. A vibration through his veins.

His magic dances. HIs soul sings. His being rejoices.

And he can feel Shiro's magic, his aura, do the same.

They sit in silence as they watch color bleed back into the world. They've been here for hours. Long enough that Keith's stomach rumbles and twists unpleasantly, his bottom aches, and his legs feel stiff. But still they sit. Still they watch. Because even when words begin to fail and weariness begins to take hold, neither of them want to move. Neither of them want to leave this spot. This moment. This bubble of contentment and peace.

They've been here since yesterday. Since before the sunset.

After their reunion, Keith refused to release Shiro until he'd gotten his tears under control. Shiro had, thankfully, allowed him to hide until then. By the time he stepped away, the others were there. Lance was at his side, hand on his lower back and rubbing comforting circles beneath his wing. Introductions were made.

Keith met Matt, a man who had been imprisoned with Shiro in the galra arenas. A man who had befriended him and kept him from losing himself. A man who had been there for Shiro when Keith could not. A man who had escaped when they were separated into different arenas, and a man who had gone back to save him.

A man whom Shiro hovered near, silently protective. A man who touched Shiro's arm, his hip, in much the same way Lance did with Keith. A man who gazed at Shiro with the same look Keith has seen in Lance's eyes. A man who was able to pull Shiro back to the present whenever his gaze became distant and hazy.

Shiro and Matt met Lance.

A strange nervousness had come over him when introductions had been made. An anxiousness and anticipation that made his stomach flip. But he needn't have worried. Lance stood tall and proud as he clasped forearms with Shiro, both of them sharing gentle smiles.

As it turned out, both Matt and Shiro had heard a lot about Lance through Pidge and Hunk. Lance had laughed and grinned, excitement carrying him through conversation and easing the others into a likewise giddy contentment. All of them connected in strange, roundabout ways. Brought together by chance and fate. Woven tighter by Lance's easy smiles and welcoming presence.

Then Shiro and Keith had left them, retreating to the cliffside to have a moment alone. Hunk had given them a basket of food to take with them while the others settled down to eat dinner in the house. Lance's gaze had been lingering as Keith turned to leave, but while his worry was clear, his smile was encouraging. Comforting. A silent promise. A place for Keith to retreat to if he needed it.

They had stayed by the cliffside throughout the night. They heard the others peek out of the house, heard their distant murmurs through sensitive hearing, but they were otherwise left alone. They talked through the night. Beneath a blanket of stars. The darkness of a new moon giving them comfort and shadows to hide their tear stained cheeks, haunted eyes, and cracking voices.

And together, they shared the pain of their time spent apart.

Shiro learned how Keith had faired alone. Lost and in a haze. Searching for him. How he never stopped searching for him. How he scoured the lands of Ionia, chasing rumors. How he fought galra along the way, liberating temples and cleansing ley lines through blood, sweat, and bruises. How he never stopped fighting.

How he's been alone.

How he hasn't seen any other Marmora is decades.

How he's been lost.

How he was found.

Keith learned how Shiro was interrogated. Tortured. Then sent to the arenas. How they hadn't expected him to survive, but he had. How he had become the Champion. How they had put him in increasingly dangerous fights for their entertainment, then healed him so he could fight again. How he had been suffocated and drowning in shadow magic for so long that he had forgotten the sound of wild magic.

How he had found a pulse of that wildness in a human from Piltover, and clung to it for his own sanity.

How he had done what he could to hold himself together. How he had helped others like him from within the prisons. How he had done things he isn't proud of and still carries the weight of that guilt now. How he had done all he could to survive because he had to. Because Keith was out there. Because he promised he would never let Keith be alone again.

Keith learned how, in their time apart, Shiro also move in a haze. How time muddled and memories became fuzzy. How he doesn't remember a lot of what happened, and only the pain and guilt remain.

He learned how they had taken Shiro's arm and replaced it with a construct of metal and magic. A primitive and corrupted version of Piltover technology, fueled on shadow magic. How it had been Shiro's weapon, how he had used it to survive, but it had latched onto his being and twisted his soul, feeding on his own wild magic.

He learned how Matt had helped rid him of the twisted technology, and how Shiro's been able to hear the music ever since. How he can still feel the echoing and lingering touch of shadow magic, but he's getting stronger. The music is getting stronger. He learned how Matt is building him another arm, a better arm, and that Pidge and Hunk are helping. So the arm will run on wild magic and fuel Shiro instead of drain him.

They share in the pain of losing parts of themselves. Shiro's arm and Keith's wing.

He gives Shiro his necklace back. The one with Keith's childhood feather, petrified in time. Shows Shiro that he still wears Shiro's tooth.

They talk through the night until their voices are hoarse and their hearts are sore. But it's a good kind of hurt. It's feeling the pain of another, but knowing that they're okay now. He's okay now. They're both okay now. They're together.

They talk until they have no more words. Until they don't _need_ anymore words. And they watch the rising sun. Watch as it chases their shadows away, bringing color back into their hearts.

Shiro is the one to break their silence, once the sun glows on the edge of the horizon, lighting up the sea. "I wish we could stay here." Voice soft. Thoughtful. Wistful. Saddened.

"You could." Keith pulls his legs back over the cliff, pulling his knees toward his chest. He leans forward, draping his arms over them, resting his chin on top. He gazes out at the waves below, lips pursed. "You should. You don't have to go back there. Not after what you've been through."

Shiro sighs, hand moving to rub at the stump of his arm absently. When Keith steals a glance at him, Shiro is gazing out to sea, but his eyes are distant. His smile is faint. "I have to go back _because_ of what I've been through."

Keith purses his lips tighter, jaw clenching.

Then Shiro's hand falls to his shoulder. A familiar feeling. The weight of it there. The warmth. Squeezing lightly. His breath shudders, tension easing out of him. His eyes flutter closed, and for a moment, just a moment, he's a child again.

"Our mission isn't done yet, Keith," He says gently, voice like wind rustling through his hair. The hand on his shoulder squeezes. "As long as the galra are still there, still spreading their influence, we have to be there to stop them. We can't let them corrupt wild magic. We can't let them destroy any more ancestral homes."

Keith sighs, shoulders sagging. "I know." He opens his eyes, gaze finding the cliff edge and the crashing waves below. "I know."

"I'll be there to fight with you again, and you'll be there with me."

Keith's fingers tighten around his biceps, arms tensing and bringing his knees closer to his chest. His voice is a low rumble, edged with a primal ferocity. "As long as I'm breathing, they won't take you again."

He can hear the smile in Shiro's voice as he says, "I know."

"What will we do when we get there? What we've been doing— what _I've_ been doing— we're barely keeping the galra at bay. Their influence is growing, and the Marmora alone aren't enough to stop it. We're... we're losing the battle, Shiro. We're spread too thin."

He tilts his head, gazing up at Shiro through the fringe of his hair. He doesn't bother to hide his fear and his sorrow. The ones he never lets himself dwell on for fear of it hampering his momentum forward, when forward was all he had left to live for.

In a voice drowned by cresting waves, vulnerable and stolen by the wind, he whispers, "I don't even know who's still alive."

Shiro's arm wraps around him, pulling him into his side. He sinks into his warmth as he did hundreds of times before. Melting into the safety and comfort of him. The same as when he was a child. The same as when they were fighting on their own.

"We'll find them. They're out there. You know them, and you know they wouldn't go down so easily." Keith can't help but smile at that. The Marmora are fierce and passionate. Driven and determined. Agile and strong. A fire sings in them that cannot be ignored. They taught him everything he knows. They made him into the warrior he is. "I... I heard of something when I was imprisoned."

Keith tilts his head up, curiosity pinching between his brows.

Shiro frowns, gaze on the distant horizon, as if he can see past it to Ionia's shores. "They whispered of an old clan hidden deep in the north western mountains, close to where the veil is thinnest. A _human_ clan. One the galra spoke of with hatred and fear. From what I could gather, they're an ancient clan, and one that respects and honors the old ways. I've even heard they can guide wild magic despite not being vastaya." There's a spark in Shiro's eye. A steely edge to his gaze. Sharp and determined. An ember that builds into a simmering fire that the galra could dampen but never put out. "We need to find them. I believe they can help us." He looks to Keith then, eyes blazing and a gentle smile on his lips. "Are you with me?"

The corner of Keith's lips tug into a smirk. "Always."

Shiro's smile widens, grin revealing fangs, embers in his eyes dancing. "And this time, I don't think we'll be alone. Matt, Pidge, and Hunk are determined to come. They want to meet with this clan and do their part to fight the galra. And it seems to me..." His eyes crinkle with mischief, a light that's so teasing and playful and one that Keith hasn't seen in so long, that it takes him too long to recognize it. Shiro's grin slips sideways, turning coy as he leans back. His arm unwraps from Keith's sounder, hand reaching out until his fingers tug on the beaded strand braided into Keith's hair. "That Lance will follow you where ever you choose to go."

Keith scowls, leaning away and swatting at Shiro's hand until it retracts. "I've tried getting rid of him."

Amusement dances in Shiro's eyes, linger on his lips. "I'm sure you have."

"He's insufferable and stubborn."

"Reminds me of someone else I know."

"He kept following me, no matter how many times I told him to go away. He doesn't belong in this world, Shiro. He's too good for— for all of _this_."

"But he's chosen to join this fight because of you."

Keith's eyes drop to his hand. Lingering on the spaces between his fingers. He knows exactly how Lance's hand looks there, filling those spaces. How it feels. "I... guess so."

"And after all that, he's still here."

A smile coils its way onto Keith's lips, unbidden and unrelenting. "He's still here." His hand clenches, curling into a fist as he looks up at Shiro, his own smile curling coy. "What about Matt?"

He has the immense gratification of watching Shiro's expression blank, a flush crawling slowly to settle on his cheeks, pink beneath his scar. Then his smile is back, small and sheepish. Eyes like molten silver. "You noticed that, huh?"

"I've seen the way you look at him, Shiro. You've never been subtle."

Shiro chuckles, low and rumbling. "I suppose not." He pulls up one knee, resting his arm on it. "He's... he's my mate. He's the music I heard when everything was terrifyingly silent. He's my Mieli."

Keith is silent for a moment before he asks, "Does he know the significance of that word?"

Shiro's eyes close briefly. The look on his face is far softer and far fonder than anything Keith has seen of him in a long, long time. It softens his features. It makes him look younger. It reminds Keith of the young, wistful vastaya he used to be. "Yes. Yes, he does."

"And he feels the same way?"

"Yes."

"I'm happy for you, Shiro." He feels his chest ache. A pleasant ache. A bubble of joy that's fit to burst. Shiro deserves this. After everything he's been through, he deserves this. He deserves someone who makes him look like this.

"Thank you, Keith. I think you'll like him."

Keith's smile widens, something primal and wild in his grin. "I know I will. He and Pidge have a spark of madness in them."

Shiro laughs, head tossed back as it bubbles out of him. "Yes, they do," He says as he settles back down. He turns to Keith then, and that playful gleam is back. Keith feels himself pull away, but he knows there's no escape. "So... about you and Lance—"

"He's not my Mieli," Keith says quickly, jaw snapping shut when he's done. His heart pounds in his chest, making his limbs feel light and tingling.

Shiro's smile is knowing. "But...?"

Keith looks down at his clenched hands, whispering, "But we're courting..."

"I'm happy for you, Keith." It's a gentle breeze. The warm rays of sunlight on a field of flowers. Something in Keith, a tight knot of nerves he hadn't know he'd been holding, relaxes. Unwinds. "He seems like a good man."

Keith doesn't bother trying to suppress his smile. "He is."

"So..." Shiro nudges him with his shoulder, a teasing lilt to his voice and a devilish grin on his lips. "How's the courting going?"

Keith scowls at him, pinning him with a glare before looking away. Heat crawls up his neck as he touches the beads in his hair, light and reverent. "He gave me this..." He mumbles.

"Have you given him anything?"

Keith shifts his weight. "...No."

"Keith." His voice is just as amused as it is pitying.

Keith's glare snaps back to him, lips pursed into a frown. "I don't know what to give him! I've never done this— I never thought I _would_ do this— and he deserves _so much_ and nothing seems like it's enough—"

Shiro laughs, arm wrapping around Keith once more, rocking him gently back and forth. "Calm down, Keith. Breathe. You'll figure something out. No matter what you give him, he'll love it because it came from you."

Keith sighs, entire body sagging. "What did you get for Matt?"

Shiro chuckles again, shaking his head. "Our entire courtship was... unconventional."

"Lance deserves conventional," Keith says slowly, feeling each word as it's dragged out of him and realizing the truth of them.

Lance loves his people, loves his homeland, and loves traditions. He shares them, keeps them alive, and spreads them. Keith tore into his life like a whirlwind, dragging him away from the peaceful like he'd known. And while Lance has willingly followed, Keith still feels a lingering guilt for the things he's taken away from him.

The least he can do is this.

The least he can do is give Lance a tradition he deserves. A courtship he deserves. As conventional as they can be while swept up in a war. The problem is that Keith has no idea what Lhotlan traditions are with courtship. He only know a few of the Marmora ones—

And... maybe that's not a bad idea. Lance is always sharing Lhotlan culture with him, and encouraging Keith to share Marmora tradition with him.

Movement catches his eye. Birds flying above. Colorful feathers gleaming in the early morning light. A sea bird. One native to Piltover.

Keith leaps to his feet, reaching for his wing, plucking a feather, and throwing it in one fluid motion. His magic crackles along it as it leaves his fingers, hardening it to steel.

It sinks into the bird's breast, and the creature lets out a strangled squawk before its wings give out, body plummeting down over the edge of the cliff.

Keith grins, wild and wide, a manic buzz surging through his veins as the idea cascades through him.

Shiro's voice interrupts his bubble of excitement, calm but amused. "Nice shot. But how're you going to retrieve the body?"

Keith blinks at him, gaze shifting to the edge of the cliff where the bird's body plummets to the sea below. His lips purse into a frown.

 _For Lance_.

He leaps, wing flaring to control and slow his decent. The sound of Shiro's laughter echoing over the cliff above as Keith falls toward the sea.

 

* * *

 

In the early morning light, he and Shiro step into the cabin on silent feet. Shiro pat Keith's back, squeezing his shoulder with a silent smile before he turns down a hall, disappearing into a room with the door left cracked.

Keith slinks to the couch where Lance lays sprawled out on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes and the other dangling off the edge. His feathers are in absolute disarray beneath him, and a blanket is haphazardly thrown over his middle.

Keith smiles to himself lifting the blanket and nudging Lance until he scoots over. He settles onto the couch next to him. Lance on his side to face him and nuzzles into the curve of his neck, breathing in deep before heaving a long, contented sigh.

Keith wraps an arm around him, fingers carding through his hair and thumb rubbing absently at the base of his ear. Lance's breath is deep and even, but Keith swears he smiles as an arm is draped over his waist, tail curling around Keith's thigh. He drapes his wing over them both, feathers settling over Lance, blocking the sunlight from his face.

The sea bird he killed is stored away safe until he has time to clean it properly.

For now, he closes his eyes and matches his breath to Lance's.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ You're only given a little spark of madness - You mustn't lose it ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

"How does it feel?" Matt asks, sliding up to the railing next to Shiro. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the railing, hands clasping as he crosses one foot over the other. His head tilts, smile aimed up at Shiro.

Shiro rotates his arm, free hand on his shoulder. He stretches the new arm in front of him, twisting it this way and that. Flexing his fingers. Spreading them and clenching them. Rotating his wrist and bending the elbow.

His new arm gleams in the early morning light. It looks like piltover technology. Metal, decorated with cogs, spaces between the plates shinning with the internal power source. But where most Piltover technology Keith has seen is copper and gold, they made Shiro's arm silver. They said the arm houses several crystals that are tuned and honed to wild magic. Crystals that can store and focus energy for Shiro to use. Crystals that will bond to his own magic.

It's disconcerting to see the metal arm move as a flesh one might. Responding to all of Shiro's movements and mental commands as if he were whole. The gleam of light within is pale lavender, matching the aura of Shiro's magic.

"It's... good." The small frown Shiro had been sporting in his inspection eases seamlessly into a small smile. The furrow in his brows relaxes, and the gleam in his eyes is hopeful. "It's really good. Far better than what it was before."

Matt beams, sunlight caught and preserved in his amber eyes, holding a fond glow as he watches Shiro's face rather than his arm. "I'm glad."

The look they exchange makes Keith's chest tighten. It's far too private and not for his eyes. He turns to look out over the ship. It's the same ship they had taken to get to Piltover with the same crew, and that's a comfort Keith hadn't realized he had needed. The sailors scurry around the deck, preparing for the open ocean as the vessel sails down the strait, away from Piltover.

Lance stands across the deck with Pidge, a very sullen looking Hunk between them. They both rub his back as he hunches over the railing, groaning softly as his head bobs from side to side. It's a feeling Keith is far too familiar with, and his heart aches with sympathy.

As he empties his stomach into the sea, Keith respectfully looks away. His gaze turns out to sea. To the gleaming city of PIltover disappearing behind them.

"Will you miss it?"

"Hmm?" Shiro turns to look at him, but Keith glances at Matt before nodding his chin toward the city.

"Will you miss it?"

Matt's gaze turns thoughtful as he looks up at the towering cityscape above. At the sprawling cliffs that line the strait. His eyes look mournful, but there's the ghost of a smile on his lips. "You know... I don't think I will. I rather like Ionia. It's grown on me. It's been nice to take a break, but I'm glad we're going back. There are people there who need us." He turns to Keith then, that spark in his eyes. The same spark of madness he's seen in Pidge. Not muted, not dulled, but more controlled. And perhaps more dangerous because of it. "There are rebels in Ionia fighting against the galra. Your tribe doesn't fight alone."

Keith nods, eyes drifting across the deck once more. To a smattering of gleaming blue feathers and smooth brown skin. "Good. I'm tried of fighting alone."

As if feeling his gaze, Lance looks up. He meets Keith's eyes across the deck, through the bustle of sailors. He smiles, and it's small and private and makes Keith's stomach flutter. Anticipation crackles across his skin, tingling in his fingertips and singing in his veins.

Shiro nudges him, bending down to whisper in his ear. "Go."

Keith shoves him away, but it's half hearted and playful. Shiro chuckles as Keith steps away. Without breaking eye contact with Lance, Keith moves toward the forward mast. Lance watches him, smile fading into open curiosity, eyes blinking owlishly. When Keith reaches the mast, he pointedly glances up it before looking back to Lance.

As soon as he sees the spark of understanding, as soon as he sees Lance's lips part and his back straighten, body turning more towards him, he breaks eye contact and scurries up the ropes.

He climbs quickly, heart hammering in his chest and hands vibrating with a surge of adrenaline. His heart pulses in his throat as he climbs, quickly but controlled. He can feel the swing and sway of the ropes beneath him, knowing that Lance is following.

He doesn't stop until he reaches the empty crow's nest, easily leaping over the edge and landing light on his feet. Lance follows after him mere moments later.

Keith turns to him as Lance steps closer, easily and automatically moving into Lance's space as Lance's hand reaches for his hip.

"Hey," Lance says, voice low and light, drifting away with the sea breeze and the waves below.

"Hey," Keith says, breathless and wavering. His knees feel weak, and he leans into Lance's hold.

"Ready to go home?" Not quite trusting his voice, Keith nods. Lance's free land slides up his neck. Cupping his jaw. Fingertips easing into his hair. Thumb toying with the beaded braid. He tilts his head. Small smile quirked. Eyes gentle. Transfixing. Swallowing Keith whole. Drowning him. "I know your fight isn't over, but at least you're not alone anymore. You found Shiro."

Keith's hand settles on Lance's wrist, sliding down until his hand rests overtop Lance's, filling the space between his fingers as he hold's Keith's jaw. He leans his head into it, feeling Lance's palm warm against his skin. He smiles, speaking low and barely a whisper to keep his voice from shaking, "Shiro isn't the only one I found."

Something flickers in Lance's eyes. Something that gives Keith the courage to continue.

His other hand reaches into the pouch at his belt. "I... I don't know how the Lhotlan do things." He keeps his eyes on Lance's face. Watches the way his brows quirk and pinch. The way his lips part and purse. The way his eyes flicker between Keith's, to his belt, and back. He looks like he's trying to piece together the puzzle before Keith can do so for him.

He looks... hopeful. Breathlessly so.

He looks scared of feeling it.

"But... the Marmora have a few courtship traditions." His voice remains surprisingly steady, if not a little breathless. He pulls out the skull and holds it out in the space between them.

It's a bird skull. Plain and simple. Picked clean, washed, and polished bone. Petrified by his magic to keep it ageless and untarnished with the test of time.

He watches Lance's face closely. Watches as his expression goes from surprised to blank. Lips parted and eyes wide. He blinks. Lips moving without forming words. Then his eyes flicker to Keith's before returning to the object in his hand. He tilts his head to the side, hand leaving Keith's hip.

He doesn't take the skull from Keith. He merely touches it. Fingertips light and fleeting as they caress the surface and inspect the curves of it. Gingerly. Carefully. Delicately.

He looks up at Keith again, brows pinching just so. "A... skull?"

Unable to bear his gaze, Keith looks down at the skull. At the way Lance's hands stand out in contrast against the polished white bone. "In the Marmora tribe..." He pauses as his voice cracks. Clearing his throat and licking his lips, he tries again. Steeling himself. Standing stiffer. Lifting his chin, even as his eyes remain downcast. "In the Marmora tribe, it's tradition to present your partner with tokens of the hunt. It shows we can provide, protect, and that we're strong."

"A... bird?"

"A sea bird." Keith's voice softens as he corrects him, losing the matter-of-fact edge as a smile threatens to form, shy and sheepish. "Because we officially started courting while on the sea." He waits, but Lance doesn't say anything. Pursing his lips, he forges onward. "If— It's okay if you don't like it. I don't know how the Lhotlan do things. This probably isn't the kind of gift you were hoping for, and I—"

"Keith."

Keith bites his tongue.

"Keith, look at me, please."

Keith glances up, through his lashes and the fringe of his hair. Lance is looking at him so fondly, the depths of his eyes the sea at night, crashing with waves and drowning in stars. Crinkled at the edges, lifting with a smile that's a gentle curve of his lips.

"I love it." He takes the skull from Keith, holding it in his hand as he wraps his arm around Keith's back. He steps forward as he pulls Keith close, and Keith's hand splays out across his chest.

Lance is close. Bodies pressed tight and wings hiding them from view. Wind in their feathers and their hair. They're close enough that all Keith can see is brown skin and blue eyes. Close enough that their noses brush and send sparks of wildfire coiling through his body.

A heat and anticipation simmer beneath his skin, crackling across his feathers.

HIs breath stills in his lungs, caught in his throat where his heart is firmly lodged.

His pulse is deafening, quick and trembling through his veins.

"Thank you," Lance whispers, and Keith can feel the words across his lips.

And then he's falling. Falling into the sea that is Lance. Surrendering to the depths of him. Letting Lance swallow him whole. Drowning in him.

He presses his lips to Lance's. Firm and gentle, desperate and hesitant, all at once. He feels Lance melt against him. Hands seeking and clinging, curling into hair and gripping bodies, holding each other tight as the ship sways beneath them and the wind tugs at their wings.

Fire surges through his veins, hot and molten, burning him from the inside out. A magic that sings, reaching for the soothing, raging melody that completes his song. Finds it in the surge of a cool tide of magic that washes over him, soothing his heat and building it higher all at once.

Lance tastes of a storm and feels like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my social media to learn more about me, my writing, and this au!
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THIS FIC ANYWHERE ELSE.** This means you, Wattpad users.
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THE ART FROM THIS FIC.** This includes platforms such as instagram and pinterest.  
> Reblog it from the artist: [tumblr](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/182405450839/wild-magic-chapter-3surprise-more-wild) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters/status/1090350169533632512)  
>    
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)  
>  **Artist's Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wolfpainters.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters)  
> 


	4. Part IV: Gliding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hand in hand, you are a wind beneath my wings and I am a fire in your eyes, and we shall glide upon this newfound momentum to the next horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the long wait. Sora has been working on her portfolio. Updates should move quicker now. 
> 
> As the gang reunites, it’s time for them to travel back to their homeland and begin the next step in their journey: searching for the lost people of Altea. Meanwhile, Keith and Lance’s courtship begins, and they’re not subtle about it.
> 
> I realized that I never linked to Keith and Lance's character designs for this au. So here's some art ((aside from the art found posted with the fic)) for those who are curious:  
> [Keith and Lance's Official Designs](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/160638434264/so-the-most-recent-league-of-legends-champions)  
> [Shiro's Design, Krolia's Design, All Wing Color References](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/178557061114/heres-a-little-preview-of-the-thing-wittyy-name)  
> [A cute mini-scene Sora drew that isn't in the fic but 100% canon](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/160875499209/cant-stop-wont-stop-i-gotta-agree-with-u-there)
> 
>  
> 
> [Fanart by our friend Pup](https://purpleneutrino.tumblr.com/post/161172734740/so-this-is-inspired-by-soras-beautiful-klance)  
> [Keith, by Absolem](https://absolem0.tumblr.com/post/182457562249/been-fooling-around-today-so-have-keith-from)  
> [Keith and Lance, by Absolem](https://absolem0.tumblr.com/post/183827520134/designs-are-from-vastaya-au-by-wolfpainters-and)  
> [Keith and Lance, by cheeriosnuggles](https://cheeriosnuggles.tumblr.com/post/181056378371/new-magical-klance-fic-written-by-wittyy-name)

✦ ✧ 〈〈 _Magic is a wilderness_ 〉〉 ✧ ✦

He stands by the fact that sunsets in Ionia are the most gorgeous sunsets in existence. He doesn't need to see many others to know this as true. The colors paint the sky and dance across the air with magic, weaving together a tangible tapestry. It's in those moments of in between where those who know how to listen can hear the veil between the moral and spirit realms becoming thin. It's an experience he wouldn't trade for the world.

Piltover sunsets now hold a special place in his heart. However, it's sunsets at sea that hold a very close second place title.

He still fears the sea. He doesn't think that will ever change. Life needs a healthy dose of fear. Madness requires a fragment of terror and doubt. Exhilaration springs from the adrenaline of dissipating dread.

But now he has a bigger respect for the sea. He sees the magic woven in the waves of the ocean, and the strength churning in its depths. He trusts the sea. He trusts the sea to do what the sea will. He trusts in the chaos of it. He trusts in Lance, who taught him how to hear the music of the waters.

He trusts the ocean. Not to not drown him, but to be wild. He respects that chaos, just as he respects the chaos of Ionia. Just as he respects the chaos that lives inside himself.

With a healthy respect and a healthy fear, sailing the open seas is easier. He finds the movement to the ship easier to move with. Not because it's predictable, but because it's not. He's stopped trying to see the rock and shift coming, and has learned how to move with it when it happens. He moves with the waves as he does with the wind, just as Lance taught him.

And occasionally, when a particularly errant wave rocks the ship and even the sailors stumble, he catches Lance's eye and sees the manic and proud gleam of his smile.

It makes his heart go wild. It makes him turn before his own smile can ache in his cheeks.

Perhaps it's the ease at which he can now navigate the ship. Perhaps it's the comfort that comes with knowing what to expect. Perhaps it's the wild thump of his heart whenever Lance's fingertips brush his wing or the glances stolen across the ship. Perhaps it's the soothing breeze in his hair, tugging through his feathers and giving him a sense of freedom.

Perhaps it's the knowledge that he has Shiro back. Alive and safe. The warmth that floods his chest and fills a bubble fit to pop whenever he watches Shiro. Alive. Whole. Happy.

Perhaps it's the feeling of contentment that's settled into his bones. He knows the fight isn't over. The war hasn't been won. But he feels content all the same. A calm before the storm. A sense of peace before the rising tide of battle. A grounding stability that stems from the knowledge that he's no longer alone. He has Shiro. He has new allies. He has _Lance_.

Perhaps it's simply the knowledge that they're sailing home and not into some distant unknown.

Whatever the case, Keith finds the trip back to Ionia to be far more pleasant than the trip away from it.

His movements and thoughts aren't plagued and dictated by his fear and his doubts. He's free to wander the ship. To get to know these new people who mean so much to Lance and Shiro.

To curl at Shiro's side as they watch the waves, thoughts a million leagues away as they share memories. To sit with Matt as he fiddles with Shiro's new arm, maniacal grin on his lips to match the gleam in Matt's eyes as Keith shares stories from Shiro's childhood. To sit with Hunk in the galley, watching curiously as he mixes together flavors Keith has never tried, telling him stories of his family back in Piltover. To speak with Pidge of his magic, showing her the tricks of sharpening his feathers and watching her eyes widen in wonder and unbridled curiosity. To steal time away with Lance, blanketed by the stars, words a prelude to shy and hesitant touches that build the melody between them.

Sunsets at sea can't compare to sunsets of Ionia, but they do hold a magic of their own.

Oranges and purples and reds and golds and pinks casting fire and flame across the rolling waves of the sea, bringing together two elements that oppose each other, but weave together in such brilliant tandem that Keith questions how anyone has ever thought they were different to begin with.

He watches each sunset with Lance at his side. Hand on his hip. One sharp nail idly tracing patterns on his skin. Cool and soothing, but strong and steady aura of his magic brushing lightly against the heat and crackle and spark of Keith's own.

He thinks they are like a sunset at sea.

 

* * *

 

"Sweet spirits of Ionia, _Hunk_ , they're _perfect_.” Lance sits on the ground at the center of the deck, out of the way of the sailors who lazily go about their business. The day has been smooth sailing, and the sailors have been using the time to catch up on rest.

Keith sits on a crate at the front of the desk, back pressed against the wall of the forecastle. One knee is drawn up, other leg dangling idly over the edge of the crate. One arm rests atop his bent knee, a half eaten chocolate bar dangling from his fingers. His other hand holds a broken square of it to his lips as he idly nibbles on it.

Upon hearing his experience with chocolate was a one time thing, Hunk went out and bought a supply of different kinds to last them through their journey. He makes desserts with it, but Keith's favorite is when he's given a bar to eat at his leisure. He likes to nibble at it, suck at the edges and savor the flavor. So foreign, but so good.

This bar in particular is darker than the one Lance had given him. It's less sweet and more bitter, bringing out a depth of flavor that he hadn't known existed. He had taken a bite at Hunk's insistence, and upon seeing his eyes light up, Hunk had given him the whole bar.

Now he sits and nibbles, watching Lance across the deck. He's putting shoes on his feet. Which, in and of itself, is ridiculous. Their kind have no need to wear shoes. They don't have the soft and vulnerable pads of weak flesh that humans have.

What is even _more_ ridiculous, however, is the fact that Hunk has specifically engineered shoes that fit the shape of Lance's feet. And the fact that he had them on hand means that this is a conversation that has happened before. And, judging from the way Lance's face lights up as he sits there, leaning back on his hands as he wiggles his feet back and forth, it was Lance's idea.

The shoes are simple enough. A flat base that is small enough to cover the pads of Lance's feet. Strap-like material that stretch over the top of his feet but leave holes for his claws to poke through. Wrapping up past the base of his foot and up the ankle like human boots do, but without reaching the hook of his leg.

They're also dyed a bright and vibrant red.

"So they fit?" Hunk sits in front of Lance, cross-legged on the deck. He pulls one of Lance's feet into his lap, turning his foot over in large but gentle fingers as he pokes at and adjusts the shoe. "I wasn't sure if the holes for your claws would be big enough, so I tried to make them flexible enough while still remaining tight enough to hold on, but not too tight, you know?"

"They're _perfect_ , Hunk." Lance grins, wiggling his toes in Hunk's lap. "They look just like human shoes."

Hunk laughs, pushing Lance's foot off his lap. "Yeah, if you ignore the fact that you have talons poking out of them."

"How'd you even _do_ this?" Lance asks, holding up his foot as close to his face as he can get, eyes wide as he looks it over.

Hunk grins, hands on his shins as he rocks back. "My own kind of magic." He waggles his eyebrows, laughing when Lance looks up sharply, wide eyes confused. "And by that, I mean my hands. And my brain, I guess. Good old fashioned human ingenuity."

"Amazing," Lance whispers, voice dripping in genuine awe. "Hey, Keith!" He says suddenly, head whipping around to pin Keith with his bright eyed stare.

It shouldn't surprise Keith by now that Lance knows exactly where he is at all times, but he startles nonetheless, freezing with the small square of nibbled chocolate poised by his lips.

"Check these out!" Lance falls back on his elbows, wing flaring out behind him as he sticks one set straight up in the air.

Keith stares at the shoe for only a moment before his gaze makes a long, slow trek down that leg, along Lance's body until finally settling on his face. "They don't match your outfit."

He scoffs, foot hitting the deck with a sharp _thump_. "And what do _you_ know of fashion, Keith?"

He takes a moment to nibble on his bit of chocolate, letting the dark taste and sharp bitterness distract him from the smile that threatens to break through. Once he's gotten a firm hold on himself, he says, "I know that bright red clashes with the rest of your outfit."

His grin is wide and bright, eyes twinkling in the afternoon sun. "I know, isn't it great?" He rolls onto his back, knees curling toward his chest for just a moment before he springs his momentum the opposite direction, deftly leaping to his feet. He stands tall, taking a moment to adjust his clothes before putting a hand to his hip, holding the other up in the air as he sticks out a foot. "No one will have any choice but to stare and admire Hunk's brilliant invention."

He gives a little spin, wing flaring out in typical Lance fashion. Hunk covers his mouth with a hand to stifle his giggles, and even Keith finds a smile making a home on his lips.

Lance turns his back to Keith, walking a few steps away before striking a pose, hands on his hips as he whips his head around to lock eyes with Keith over his shoulder. Keith can tell he's trying to hold his expression steady, but his smile is ever present in the lift of his cheeks.

"Look at me," He says, swinging his hips and stretching a foot out. His voice is contorted into something else, something mocking and light. "I'm a human." He spins, walking back to Hunk and lifting a foot to perch it on his friend's shoulder. "I have shoes and everything. No one is allowed to see my feet, or the rest of my plain, boring body. I have to embellish it to achieve even a fraction of the natural beauty of the vastaya."

He saunters his way toward Keith, movements strangely stiff and jerking, lacking the natural grace of their kind. It adds to the act, and Keith can hear Hunk snorting into his hand, even as Lance blocks him from view.

He stops in front of Keith, leaning forward to place his hands on either side of his hips, leaning forward into his space. His voice drops, retaining that lilt of amusement and twisted mockery of an accent. "I'm deaf and blind as a newborn child, but at least my kind invents cool things like shoes and chocolate."

He leans forward then, clearly intent on taking a bite out of Keith's chocolate bar. He pulls it back just in time, Lance's teething coming down on nothing. He watches as Lance blinks, confusion coloring his features for just a moment before they give way to a pout.

Keith merely smirks. "Nope."

" _Keith._ "

He feels his eyes crinkle in amusement and challenge as he shoves the remnants of his chocolate square in his mouth, smirking as Lance's bottom lip becomes more prominent. Then he slips away, sliding off the crate and out from under Lance's arms, skirting across the deck on light feet, balance moving with the waves.

Lance whips around, eyes locking onto Keith's, frown pursing his lips. "Share your chocolate."

"No," He says, a laugh echoing in his voice.

" _Keeeith_."

"Come and get it." Keith holds out an arm, dangling the rest of the chocolate bar between his fingertips. Lance's eyes lock onto it for a moment before flickering back to his, a slow, predatory smile curling his lips.

It awakens something in Keith, sending a curling trickle of heat and adrenaline through his veins, spurred on by the rapid beat of his heart.

Then Lance is darting forward, and Keith barely suppresses a noise of surprise before he's moving. He sweeps under Lance's grab, darting away, feet light on the deck of the ship. He spins from Lance's outstretched hands, laughing as his fingers trail through feathers. He moves around the mast, ducking as Lance grabs hold of it, using it so spin and leap from. He twirls around Hunk, and Lance jumps over him.

His laughter bubbles up in his chest, spilling from his lips to be stolen by the wind. Even Lance's shouts and indignant protests have a light bubble in them. He can hear Hunk's laughter. The snickers from the crew.

He holds the bar to his mouth, clenching it lightly between his teeth as he jumps onto a crate, carrying his momentum forward as he leaps. His fingers catch on the ropes, and he swings himself onto them, scurrying up in a way that's become second nature. That reminds him of climbing and scaling the trees in Ionia.

Lance is after him in a heartbeat, but while his hands grip the ropes just fine, his feet lose traction, and he has to clutch and twist his arms into the ropes to keep from falling.

"Hunk!" He shouts, feet scrambling for purchase. "Shoes were a terrible idea!"

"I told you the grip wouldn't be as good as your feet! You're not used to having shoes!"

Lance tilts his head up, lip pouting as he glares at where Keith is perched in the ropes halfway up the map, grinning down at his misfortune. "I'm coming for you," He warns, pointed a threatening finger in his direction.

Keith takes the bar from his teeth, pointedly taking a bite. "Try again when you're done playing human."

It takes a ridiculous amount of time to get the shoes off his feet, and eventually Hunk has to help him do it. Once he's freed, he wastes no time scampering up the ropes, perching closer to Keith than is strictly necessary.

Keith ends up sharing his chocolate, if only to see the way Lance's face lights up when he does so.

 

* * *

 

 

While the sailors aboard the ship seemed partial to music, humming tunes while they worked and playing with weather worn instruments in their free time, they seemed ever more partial to it with the vastaya passengers on board.

When the heat of the day fades and the seas are calm, they gather on deck, every one with an instrument handy and many more with their voices to spare. Those who are still on duty hang around, keeping an eye on what they should with a bob of their heads and harmony in their voices.

The main deck is cleared, people gather around the edges, sitting where they can find space, sharing drinks and stories and smoke. The center of the deck is where sailors and passengers alike dance beneath the stars, their footsteps adding to the rhythm of the music.

They play their known songs, simple melodies with known and catchy lyrics. And, Keith is pleased to find, they retained some of the songs that Lance taught them on their voyage to Piltover, embellishing on their own and adding their own flare. Twining and spinning together the threads of vastaya and human origins into something new. Something upbeat and fluid. A ballad with a jaunty beat.

Keith perches in the ropes, not too high above the deck, but enough to be out of the way. Enough to be in his own space. His head bounces to the rhythm, leg swinging with the melody. His lips shape the words that had caught and snagged in his memory, adding his voice to the chorus around the ship, echoing out over the ocean and disappearing into the night.

He watches Shiro guide Matt around the deck. Though Matt is by no means small, his stature is dwarfed by Shiro's, and he almost looks small in his arms. Small and protected and cherished. It's in the way Shiro's touch is gentle. In the way Matt leans into him. In the way they look at each other, lips curved into smiles that look soft enough to be absent minded. Not so much intentional as they are merely a byproduct of the silent communication exchanged between them

Matt's movements are stiff and delayed, as if reacted to the echoing beat of the music rather than feeling it hum through him. He occasionally looks down, watching his feet.

Shiro's movements are graceful and patient. He guides Matt with confident and sturdy hands, applying the smallest pressure to move him around the deck. He does nothing fancy or outrageous, as Keith knows he's capable of. In fact, he moves to half time, slower than the rest dancing aboard the ship. It doesn't take a fool to know he's doing it for Matt's sake.

It's clear that the human doesn't feel music the same way Shiro does. Nor does he feel the exuberance and freedom of the sailors, moving their bodies without a care and trusting the rhythm they feel in their hearts. Keith has known Matt for only a few weeks, and he knows that the man exists more in his mind than his heart.

Music, he has no doubt, is felt differently for once such as Matt. That doesn't, however, stop him from dancing. He may be more reserved, brow pinching as he stumbles a step and lips pursing as he struggles to adapt to a tempo change, but he doesn't stop. He stays in Shiro's patient hold.

Together they dance, wrapped in a private pocket of time reserved just for them.

A human and a vastaya, exchanging glances reserved for mates.

It's strange, but it's no less genuine. Keith can see it in Shiro's eyes. He can see it in Matt's. Matt may be human, but Keith can see that he means no less than a vastaya mieli might.

He wonders if Matt can hear the music that's being woven between them.

His attention is caught and diverted as another head of bright orange hair spins out onto the dance floor, tugged along by a bouncing wave of blue feathers. Pidge protests, loudly and repeatedly, but Keith can hear the laugh in her voice. He can see it reflected on Lance's face as he drags Pidge across the dance floor.

He doesn't dance with her as Shiro does with Matt, close and private and intimate. He spins her wildly, adapting to her far more human methods of dance. And even though Keith knows little of how humans dance, he knows enough to know that what they're doing is far more for jest than to feel the music.

Still, they're having fun, and Keith finds a smile curving the edges of his lips as he watches.

The two of them take Hunk by the hands, dragging him out into the center of the deck to join them. They link hands and elbows. They spin and swirl their hips. Their arms flail with a mockery of rhythm, but Lance laughs all the same.

They talk together. The three of them. Keith can see their lips moving, heads bowed together and laughter glinting in their eyes, shaking their shoulders. But the words themselves are swept away with the wind and the tide, lost in the chorus of voices and melodies woven from a plethora of strings and flutes and drums.

Still, Keith finds himself unable to look away. He likes watching Lance like this. With people he holds dear. He likes seeing the softness of his features and the genuine light in his eyes. He likes to watch as the cocky confidence melts away, revealing something far more real. A strength and ease that are far more natural.

He doesn't know how long he's been staring by the time Lance looks up at him. Latches onto his gaze and refuses to let him go. His heart stutters in his chest as Lance smiles, body tensing as the boy leaves Pidge and Hunk to twirl through the dancers. His feathers are a wisping blue swirl in his wake.

He doesn't stop until he stands beneath him, head tilted back and arms spread wide in open invitation, as if Keith might leap down into them.

And knowing how weak he is to Lance's whims, he just might.

"Come dance with me," He calls above the pulse of sailor songs. Head cocked to the side, grin wide and sharp.

Keith's fingers curl into the ropes, sharp nails biting into the woven hemp. He purses his lips, giving a sharp shake of his head. "I don't dance."

Lance's smile falters, brow pinching as the grin slowly and steadily falls. His arms lower to his sides with it, head twisting to the other side. As if a new angle might give him new insight. "All vastaya dance." It's not a question. Merely a statement layered in confusion.

And he's right. All vastaya dance. It's in their blood. They hear the music in the earth. In the air. In their magic, curled and coiled down to their cores.

All vastaya dance.

But Keith hasn't danced in a very long time. The dance of battle? Yes. A few playful steps here and there? Of course. Dancing lives and thrives in his movements, and he can no sooner remove that part of him than cease breathing.

Dancing like this, however? With music and singers circling a space reserved for those daring and willing to leap in, to lose themselves to the music, to let their bodies be a slave to the rhythm.

To dance in front of others.

To dance with someone.

He hasn't danced in a long, long time.

Since before he became a freedom fighter. Since before he knew pain and suffering and the numbing chill of loneliness. Since before he lost his home and his tribe was scattered into the winds. Since before he new adulthood, and the strangeness of youth still held him in thrall.

He hasn't danced in a long, long time.

Tongue tied and throat thick with the hot shame that floods him in the wake of Lance's confusion, Keith merely shakes his head.

Then Shiro is there, his dance with Matt having guided him close. He leans toward Lance, saying loud enough for Keith to hear, "Keith stopped dancing back in our village. No one could get to him to budge during celebrations and festivals."

He casts a glance upward, an innocent smile barely masking the sly look in his eyes as he moves Matt away.

Keith glares after him, gaze flickering back to Lance. He stands there, gazing up at him. His wild grin has faded into something softer. He spreads his arms again, and while he speaks loud enough to be heard, there's a gentleness in his tone. "All vastaya dance." A statement. A plea.

Keith bites his lip, looking away in his uncertainty. But his body is already moving. He's long since given up pretending he isn't weak to Lance's whims.

He falls from the ropes, magic flaring in a comforting and familiar heat in his veins as time seems to slow, gravity lessens its hold, and the air catches around him. He falls slow and graceful, wing flaring and feathers spread, as if they might be the reason for his easy descent and not the magic crackling across them.

Lance doesn't need to catch him, but he does all the same.

Keith lands light on his feet, Lance's arms around him. His own resting on Lance's shoulders. His wing slowly flutters down, resting along his back. It's only once his feathers are settled that Lance speaks.

"Why did you stop dancing?"

Keith stares down at the curve of his clavicle, peeking out from beneath the collar of his cloak. "I didn't dance like the Marmora. I didn't like looking any more different than I already did."

The Marmora dance like they fight. Powerful and steady, with the inherent grace of their kind. Their movements are bold and strong, not quite slow but neither are they rushed. They dance with purpose and poise. Movements like a panther stalking through the night. A predator slinking through the shadows. A beast in the proud light of day. They move with an inherent flow of muscles shifting beneath skin, steps unrushed and deliberate. Strong and steady. Powerful and driving.

Each movement is purposeful. Each gesture is followed through. They're grounded. Resolute. In fighting and in dancing. Big gestures. Powerful steps. Movements in body and limb that are grand and proud.

If the Marmora's dance style were a song, it would be a war ballad. Driving and rising, powerful drum beats and pulsing melody.

Keith, try as he might, has never been able to get the hang of it. They tried to teach him. He tried to learn. But his own dance was never the same. Lighter. More fleeting. More quick paced and subject to change.

He tired to dance as his tribe did, but his body moved to a different rhythm.

Lance takes one of his hands, wrapping his fingers loosely around Keith's. His arm slides around Keith's lower back, pulling him until their hips are flush and chests barely a breath's width apart.

He leans in, head tilted to the side, close enough that Keith can feel the phantom brush of his nose. His eyes are lidded and dark in the shadows, but glinting with the fire of the lantern light. "I bet you dance like a Lhotlan."

Keith feels the air leave his lungs in a rush, squeezed out as his chest clenches. He stares at Lance, blinking as the realization spirals his thoughts. Lips parting. Body slumping into Lance's hold.

He never considered that he might dance like the Lhotlan tribe. That his body might inherently move to the beat of his ancestral drum.

He never considered... but now he wonders.

His heart beats wild and rushed his chest. Loud and painful enough that he's certain Lance can hear. Can feel.

His grin spreads, slow and private. Fueled by the same fire that's lit itself in Keith's chest. Their magic thrums together, humming beneath their skin and reaching, crackling, weaving together.

"Wanna find out?" Lance asks, voice barely a breath. His eyes are coal in the night, reflecting flames. Keith feels them burning through him. Lance's grip tightens, and Keith leans into his embrace. There's a gleam of excitement in his eyes and madness on his lips.

Keith presses their foreheads together, lifting his chin just enough to feel their noses brush, soft and intimate. Close enough that his lips move like a whisper against Lance's when he speaks. "Show me."

And then Lance sweeps him across the deck. They lose themselves in the music. Keith lets himself dance for the first time in centuries, and for the first time, he doesn't feel out of place. He moves with his instincts, and is surprised that Lance is right there with him.

They spin apart and come together. They weave through the other dancers, steps leaping and jumping off crates. Their feathers spin with them, flaring out to join the dance. Folding like water in their wake. They move together, light on their feet and rapid as a coursing river, diverting around obstacles but never stopping.

They move, slow to fast, quick to slow. Swaying together. Spinning one another. Dancing away before coming back together.

Keith loses himself in the sailors' songs, boisterous and full. In the touch of Lance's hands, firm and gentle. In the brush of his wing, delicate and intimate. In the shadows of the night and the gleam of the stars.

He may not dance like a Marmora, but music flows hot and heavy through his veins, commanding and demanding he follow the rhythm

All vastaya dance.

And Keith dances like the Lhotlan tribe. He dances like Lance.

They dance until Keith's feet ache and his cheeks are sore from his laughter. Until the music begins to wane. Until the sailors retire to their quarters below deck. Until it's just the two of them, swaying with the waves and rocking with the ship beneath the light of the moon.

 

* * *

 

 

Courting has always been something that was known, yet remained unknown. It was a custom amongst their people, and one that was highly revered. It was not, however, one that Keith gave much head.

He never thought he'd be courted. Never thought he'd be one to court. He never met someone among the Marmora that he fancied, and he was more focused on trying to find his place than to find someone. He knew he stood out. He was smaller than the Marmora. More lithe. He was quick and bright and nothing like them. He couldn't imagine a likelihood of any of them wanting him.

And that was fine.

He wasn't one for mates. He never has been. The concept was one that seemed like a far off fantasy. Something that looked nice, something revered and cherished, but something that he had long since accepted wasn't for him.

He was too busy struggling to find his place. To prove his strength. To learn. To adapt. To become as much of a Marmora as anyone else, if not in body then in spirit.

He wanted to prove he was worthy of that home.

Then his home was destroyed.

Scattered to the winds, taking to the shadows, his tribe dispersed. He became a fighter. He found a purpose. He found a reason. He found a drive. A beat to dance to. He fought. And the life of a fighter has no room for mates. He wasn't foolish enough to believe he'd find someone willing to court him when his movements were dictated by thwarting the galra. When his life was put on the line every day. When he never stayed in one place for too long.

Then Shiro went missing, and finding a mate was the furthest thing on his mind.

Life became a haze.

Time became a concept.

Emotions beyond rage, sorrow, and exhilaration existed only in his memory.

And then he met Lance.

He found himself craving the soft touches. Craving the thrill that came naturally in his presence. Craving the sound of his voice and his laugh, a melody all on their own. Craving his presence. The feeling of his magic. Craving _him_. And it was a desire unlike anything he'd ever known.

Powerful. Consuming. Bringing to light emotions warm and heated, filling the void of numbness that had plagued his chest for so long.

Making him feel full.

Making him feel cherished.

Making him want to try.

He still has no idea how courting is supposed to work. He never paid much attention. He knows they've made their intentions clear. He knows they're supposed to exchange gifts and spend time together. He knows they're supposed to prove to each other that they can be good mates. He knows it's a period of treading waters, testing limits, figuring each other out.

Because becoming mates is not a light decision. Not among their kind. Mates are for life. Mates are intertwined, magic and songs woven together into something new. So the courting process is necessary. Allows them to be close, to test the waters, to get a glimpse of what a full commitment might be like.

He knows nothing of courting, but from what he remembers witnessing centuries ago, back when he was young and among the Marmora, it's shy. It's tentative. It's hesitant. It's a budding intimacy that grows and blooms with proper love and care. It's slow and it's graceful. A dance in and of itself.

There are exceptions, of course. Shiro and Matt, for example. Brought together through unfortunate circumstances, weaving together to survive and unwilling to let go. A connection rushed due to circumstance, but a strong and solid bond nonetheless.

He doesn't know much about courting, but he does know that he and Lance are far past the first stages of shy hesitation. Of uncertainty and tentative touches. It happened so gradually. So naturally. That Keith barely remembers it happening at all.

One moment Lance was a stranger, and the next, he was an irreplaceable part of Keith's life. A piece that slotted so seamlessly and completely into place.

He can't imagine his life without Lance by his side. Without his songs and his laugh. Without that dangerous glint in his eyes and madness sharpening his smile. Without the touch of his hands and softness of his feathers. Without the bright and cool press of his magic.

Keith doesn't know how courting is supposed to go. He doesn't know how long it's supposed to last. He's moving with the flow. Winging it. Following Lance's lead and guiding hand.

He doesn't know what he's doing, but Lance seems happy.

Keith is happy.

And he never wants to return to the haze that kept him trapped for so many years.

 

* * *

 

 

He loses himself in the moment. A fraction of time, splintered and segmented. Where the passage holds no meaning and the two of them exist in a bubble of their own. The ship rocks beneath them, the wind playfully tugs at them, and the moon casts their skin aglow. But time holds no sway.

Seconds stretched to hours. Minutes stretched to eternities.

Seconds slip past in a rushing stream. Minutes fall like sand through fingers.

Keith surrenders himself to the moment, trapped in time with Lance.

Breath caught between them. Chests heaving with every inhale. Lips pressed close. Teeth caught on sensitive flesh. Tongues exploring, demanding, pleading. Hands unable to stay still. Restless. Desperate. Needing more. Taking more. Never having enough.

Lance's hands on his waist, his hips, his thighs. Nails biting into thick flesh and raking down his back. Slipping beneath his clothes, eager and desperate for the contact of flesh on flesh.

Keith's hands on Lance's bare chest, fingers splayed and curled, nails biting into what he desperately wanted to claim. Hands slipping around to Lance's broad back. Down to his narrow hips. Skin smooth and bronze and tight over muscles that coiled and tensed and twitched beneath Keith's touch.

Bodies arching, pressing together, curling and wrapping tight. Knees between thighs. Hips rolling. Lips hungry and breaths hot.

He wants Lance.

He _needs_ Lance.

More than he's ever needed anything else. His body craves it. _Demands_ it. He can't stay still, desire simmering beneath his skin and making his body writhe at every touch. Every kiss. Every drag of claws and bite of teeth.

Touches, hot and heavy. Tearing into each other. Eager to rip one another apart. Lips swollen and flesh bruised with fingertips and teeth. Demanding. Commanding. Brutal and driven by the building pleasure that feels like a fire burning in his gut, simmering beneath his skin, building, building, building.

Touches, light and fleeting. Reverent and awed. Fingers combing gently through feathers. Carding through hair. A fleeting caress of calloused hands over heated flesh. A drag of lips over sweat coated bodies. Cherishing. Filled with wonder and adoration. Disbelief and amazement. Light and fleeting, as if holding something fragile.

They surge between the two. Hot and cold. Soothing and overheated. Their magic weaves between them, crackling in the air as it ignites and twists together.

They've escaped to the crow's nest, commandeering it late in the night when most are below deck and they can be blanketed by the night and the stars. The light of the moon making their damp skin glow and lighting the fire in their eyes.

Bodies tangled beneath a cacophony of feathers.

Clothes twisted and shed.

Bodies writhing and moving together. Never stopping. Never satisfied. Always wanting more. Needing more. Demanding more.

A dance of passion. A dance of desire. A dance of desperation.

Tangled together beneath the stars.

Keith's teeth find Lance's ear, biting down onto soft and tender flesh. Sensitive and overwhelming. His fangs cut deep. Lance's back arches off the floorboards of the crow's nest, curving into Keith's body as he pins him down. Nails claw at Keith's thighs.

He growls deep in his chest, biting harder.

Lance gasps and moans, fingers tensing and claws biting deep.

Keith tastes the metallic bite of blood on his tongue. Feels the piercing of Lance's nails into his skin. He unclenches his teeth, licking and dragging his lips over the small wound. Lance's fingers relax just a fraction, breathing heavily as he turns his head to the side. Bearing more of his neck for Keith. Begging not in words, but in the heavy pant of breath and roll of his hips.

Keith bites down hard, trailing teeth and lips.

Lance claws at his back, tearing into his skin.

Pain.

Pleasure.

The spark of magic beneath the expanse of the heavens.

 

* * *

 

 

✦ ✧ 〈〈 _What human's call magic, we call life_ 〉〉 ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

 

He feels the hum of magic long before they reach Ionia's shores.

He can feel it building in the air. A gradual pressure. A crackle of static. It builds and builds and builds even when Ionia's shores are still a distant speck on the horizon. He feels it. He feels the hum in his veins. He feels the vibration in his bones. He feels his own magic swirl and coil and swell with the nearness of it.

He's not the only one. He sees it on Lance's face, too. The smile he can never quite taper down. The way his eyes seem to always be swiveled to stare at that distant and growing speck of land. The way his expression softens as his eyes grow distant, caught up and lost in the pressure building inside him. The gentleness of magic reaching across the sea, moving across his skin in a gentle caress.

Keith can feel it. He can feel Ionia calling him home. He can feel the chaotic power of his ancestors reaching out for him. The irresistible draw towards a wild power that all vastaya are connected to.

He sees it in Shiro's face, too. The awe and joy are more muted there. Shiro's eyes are distant, but shadows creep there, too. There's conflicting emotions, and Keith can't even begin to imagine how he feels. This is his homeland. This is the land of his prison. This is where wild magic thrives, the essence in the core of his being. This is where shadow magic devours, throbbing in the scars it's made.

Still, all the vastaya feel the pull.

The three of them hover near the edges of the ship, as if they might lean out over the waters to reach it sooner. As if they might reach out and touch. And when they get in the way, dazed and lingering bodies being bumped and shoved by the sailors working, the three of them retreat to the crossbeam on the foremast.

They climb up and perch on the worn wood. Eyes to the horizon. They exchange no words for they have no need to. Their magic hums between them. Coiling and colliding. The flickering flame of his own. The soothing push and pull of Lance's. The light and grounding rumble of Shiro's. They coil together, sparking and humming with the call of Ionia's wild magic.

The humans call to them from below, but they don't hear the words. They don't respond. The humans don't understand. They cannot feel the pull or hear the magic.

They don't know what it's like to be reconnected with apart of yourself.

They stand there, vigilant and unmoving, time slowing and speeding up all at once, as the ship draws near its destination. The wind tugs at their hair. At their feathers. At their fur. At their ears. Their clothes. Their tails. But they stand still as stone, eyes locked on a land they were born from.

As they pull toward the harbor, ships and city coming into view, Ionia's coast stretches in either direction, as far as the eye can see. It feels like a welcoming embrace. Mountains and forests and seaside cliffs looming far beyond the port town.

Lance's hand slips into Keith's. Gentle as the wind and grounding. Keith shifts absently, weaving his fingers together with Lance's. Feeling their magic twist and spark in a familiar welcome. Eyes never leaving the land, his other hand reaches out, taking Shiro's. He feels the familiar touch of his magic and the warm web they weave. Old and worn and familiar, despite the time that's kept them apart.

They wait as the ship sails forward. As shouts can be heard beneath them. As the humans scurry about at a quick footed pace. A stark contrast to the vastaya standing watch, still and immovable and untouched by time.

Restlessness crawls beneath Keith's skin. Eager anticipation coiling hot in his chest. It builds and builds and builds. A bubble in his chest, tight and fit to burst.

They haven't even docked when the bubble pops.

He lets go of the hands he holds and leaps down from their perch. His magic crackles and flares as it slows gravity, as his wing splays wide and feathers catch the air. He lands on the deck with light feet, already taking off running.

He can hear the other two hit the deck behind him.

He sprints to the edge of the ship, plants a foot on the railing, and he leaps. Magic fills the wind behind him and beneath his wing. Power and strength in his legs to fuel his jump. He easily makes the distance to the dock, landing on the salted and warped planks.

The humans on the dock gasp. He feels them pull away. His wing barely has time to flutter down. Feathers barely settling back in place before he takes off again. Before he's running. He's sprinting.

He weaves through the townspeople, humans and vastaya and everything in between. They're obstacles, moving and hindering. He slips through them like a the wind itself, brushing past and leaving them in the wake of his dust. He dodges. He weaves. He leaps and ducks and bounds forward. Ever onward.

His feet barely touch the cobblestones. His wing shifting in his wake like water, half a slave to his momentum and half for balance.

He dives into the streets of the harbor city, leaving the ship and his friends behind. He knows they'll take care of the things they need to without him. He can feel Shiro's magic left far behind. Shiro has always been more reserved, perhaps more so now with his trepidations. Keith will worry about that later.

For now, he needs to run. He needs to get to the forest. He needs to go where he's called. He needs it like air. Like water. He feels his soul pulled and tugged forward, and he can't resist the siren call of wild magic.

He can feel Lance's aura behind him. A surging tidal wave hot on his heels. He doesn't look back. He doesn't need to.

He darts through the city gates, leaping over horses and carts and between startled travelers. He immediately leaves the cobblestone road. He sprints for the tree line. He dives into the forest.

He weaves between the trees, but his arms reach out, touching them as he goes. Feeling the course bite of their bark. Feeling the quiver of their energy.

He feels it in the air. The wild magic. The pulsing hum of Ionia. He feels it like a heartbeat beneath his feet as magic surges through the ley lines like the lifeblood of the land. He feels it in his core. In his bones. In his heart. In his very being.

He runs until his legs ache and his lungs are strained. Until the city and the bleakness of human creation is far, far behind him. Until he's surrounded in the chaos of the wilderness. Trees and plants thriving uninhibited. Lights flickering like dust motes in the air.

He stops and he spins, arms held out wide.

Lance doesn't stop. He surges onward, and Keith can see the smirk on his lips in the moment after he spins and before Lance collides with him.

Arms warp around his middle, and he's lifted into the air. Lance uses his momentum to spin them around. Their wings flare out, feathers weaving together in their wake. Keith wraps his arms around him, and he laughs.

He laughs, wild and free. A bubbling manic madness in his chest, welling up like a spring of magic. A magic that flows through the earth, through the air, through both him and Lance. Connecting them. Connecting all of them.

He laughs until his voice is hoarse and his lungs ache.

He laughs as they both fall to the ground and lie there in a twisted, crumpled heap, simply content to breath, to rest, and to take a fraction of stilted time, frozen between moments, to simply exist.

 

* * *

 

 

✦ ✧ 〈〈 _The humans will never understand our kind until they hear the song_ 〉〉 ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

 

Climbing trees has always been second nature. It was one of the things that he had in common with the Marmora tribe. Something he's convinced all vastaya share. Their connection with nature, with the earth, with the land itself, allows them to scale the landscape and the things that grow there with ease.

His fingers find holds easily, nails biting into the bark. His feet never question where to land, whether his grip is good enough to continue. He scampers up the tree with speed and grace, wing leaving a streak of red, pink, and purple in his wake as he disappears into the leaves.

The tree is large and twisting, thick trunk and a plethora of wide branches, reaching and arching and twining with those around it. It's a thicket of forest that's been untouched by human hands, leaving the trees to grow and twist in a beautifully chaotic design.

The magic here is thick, pure, and untainted. It's a breath of fresh air in his lungs, and his own magic hums in contentment. He feels it dance across his skin, playful and light.

The music of it is loud. Not audibly, but Keith can feel it. A faint melody. One he feels in his heart and his soul more than with his ears. The lilting and dancing melody of chaos. Of wilderness. Of madness. Of magic.

HIs body is alive with it.

Lance's is, too. Lance's antics have been even more playful. His laughter more boisterous and hysteric. The glint in his eyes is pure madness as he grins too wide. Hunk seems put off by it, but there's a fondness there that he can't quite rid himself of. Pidge laughs along, encouraging and never quite as angry as she tries to lead on. Keith can see the madness in her, too.

He climbs to the higher weave of branches, stepping out onto them. He stands with a hand on the warped trunk, eyes scanning the web of twisting branches. It doesn't take him long to find a mop of bright orange hair.

Matt sits in the space between two trees, where the branches twist and thicken. He sits with his legs dangling from the branches, hands resting at his sides. Unlike the others, dressed in casual human garb, Matt's clothing choice since their arrival is more... battle ready. Small pieces of leather armor. Colors that can blend into the wilds and the shadows. Thickly padded while still being movable.

Keith has never seen anything like it, but the word _rebellion_ whispers in his mind.

He had thought it was an unorganized grouping of humans. He thinks he might be wrong.

Matt's hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, eyes lidded as he stares down at the rest of their group below. The smile on his lips is small but absent minded. There's a scar on his cheek that glows in stark contrast to the rest of his pale skin.

Keith moves across the branch web on silent feet, letting himself drop to sit at Matt's side. Far enough away to give him space, but close enough to remain personal. He lets his feet dangle below him. His wing slipping between the branches behind him.

Matt says nothing, though he does tilt his head, glancing sidelong at him.

Keith says nothing, putting his hands on the branch at his sides, leaning forward to peer down to the ground below. They've stopped traveling for the night, but the sun has yet to fully set. Had it just been him and Lance, he has no doubt that they would've still been moving. But... traveling with this group is different.

They stop more often. They travel slower with humans in tow. They talk and joke and sing as they walk. They share stories and pause to appreciate the beauty around them. And while there's still a sense of urgency twisting in the back of their minds, it's not so urgent that a couple more days will matter. It's... a nice change of pace.

A small campfire blazes below. Hunk sits close to it, a small pan already set up over the fire with something sizzling in it. It smells divine. Hunk makes Keith wonder how he ever managed to survive on hunted and burned scraps of meat for centuries.

Pidge sits against a tree nearby. The contents of their bag are scattered around them, a device in their hands been worked with small, dexterous fingers. Lance perches on a fallen log, lute in his hands, fingers moving fluidly and slowly over the strings, voice like a tide, rising and falling as he sings in the old tongue.

Shiro lays nearby, stretched out in the grass, caught in the last rays of the sun and the warmth from the fire. For once, his face is completely relaxed. Shadows chased away and easing the hardened edges of his features. He looks younger, despite the stock of white hair and the scar across his nose. His tail idly flicks behind him, an indication that he's not quite asleep, despite appearing close to it.

"Why are you up here?" Keith finally asks, slipping into the silence between them.

Matt hums, lifting his gaze to where the setting sun casts fire through the latticework of leaves. "I've always liked heights. I used to climb trees and buildings back in Piltover. It feels... freeing. To be above everything. Things from up here look... more simple. It's easier to understand things when you look at them from above."

Keith feels a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Spoken like a vastaya."

Matt laughs, a soft chuckle that resonates deep in his chest. "Shiro says that a lot. I'm pretty sure we don't have any vastaya blood, though."

"But you _do_ have a spark of madness." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Matt turn to look at him, but he keeps his eyes down on the ground below, gaze flickering to Pidge. "I can see it in you. In Pidge, too. Everyone is born with a spark of madness. The vastaya learn how to cherish it. Humans are taught to snuff it out." He looks up then, smile still small but genuine in a way he hadn't thought he'd be capable of several months ago. Before he met Lance. Before Lance tore through his numb haze and taught him how to feel again. "You still have your spark of madness. Don't lose it. It's what keeps you connected to this world."

He looks up then, meeting Matt's eyes. Soft and crinkling at the edges. Smile small but lifting his entire face. "Thanks, Keith."

A heat starts in his chest. A feeling he's still not used to and isn't sure he'll ever be. Kinship. Friendship. He looks away, down to where Shiro stretches in the last rays of the sun, ears twitching with every note Lance sings.

A thought occurs to him. One he's been wondering about for a while. "Can you hear the music?"

"Yeah, Lance is really good—"

"No, the _music_."

A pause. A purse of lips. "I'm... not sure I understand."

Keith waves a hand around in the air, feeling the shift and swirl of wild magic as if it were invisible smoke. "The _music_. The song of Ionia. The song of _magic_. We... the vastaya can hear it in the air. It's like... a distant humming that's always in our heads. We feel it like we feel our heartbeats." His hand drops back to his side, voice lowering. "I've never known of humans who could hear it, but..."

"I think... I think I can?" Keith glances over. Matt's brow is furrowed and his lips pursed in thought. He stares down below, though whether it's at the fire or at Shiro, Keith can't tell.

"Really?" A breathless thrill of excitement running through his veins.

"I... I'm not sure. Sometimes I swear I can hear music. But it's not like... _music_ music, you know? Not like what Lance is doing right now. It feels..." He laughs. "Well, I guess that's just it, isn't it? It _feels_. Like hearing it in your head, but knowing it's not just in your head. It used to happen a lot, and I thought I was just going crazy from being in Ionia too long, and it stopped when we left for Piltover, but... I can hear it again."

"When did it start?"

A soft smile. A gentle chuckle. "When Shiro started telling me about Ionia. About wild magic. He opened my eyes to a lot of things. We learn about it in school, and my dad and I were here to research it, but it's so much different when you experience it first hand." He looks up then, gaze on the specks of dark sky and last rays of light between the leaves. The wind plays with his hair, tugging at Keith's wings. "I hear it the most when I'm closer to Shiro. So... I think I hear it through him?"

That warm feeling bubbles in Keith's chest, and each pop sends a shiver of soothing heat spreading through his veins. He looks down to where Shiro lays, eyes still closed but lips curled into a small smile. His finger taps along to Lance's song and his tail swishes with it.

"Thank you," He says, breath rushing out of him.

"For what?"

"For saving him. Not just from the colosseum, but from himself. From shadow magic."

Matt laughs, and Keith can hear the flustered edge to it. "He did that all himself, I didn't—"

Keith shakes his head. "I've felt shadow magic. I've seen the shadows that haunt him. I've talked with him. He was trapped, and _you_ saved him. He helps you hear the music because you gave the music back to him."

They're quite for a long time. A comfortable silence. One with a vibration of warmth. Surrounded by the hum of wild magic. By Lance's voice and the pluck of the strings. Of Pidge and Hunk's muted conversation. Of the crackle of the fire and the smell of food.

Keith looks up, noticing the last rays of light have faded and the stars peek through the leaves. "Wanna climb higher?"

"What?"

Keith looks back to him, a smirk coiling at his lips. A spark of something exciting as the idea comes to him. "Wanna climb higher? The night flies come out just after sunset. They hover over the tops of trees and glow."

Matt's lips part, eyes widening. "What? I've never heard of that."

Keith's smirk widens, crinkling at the edges of his eyes. "That's because humans are too afraid to climb."

Matt's already standing, moving along the branches toward the trunk of one of the trees. "Not me. Let's go."

They climb higher, weaving through the latticework of branches and canopy of leaves. They climb until the light from the campfire is barely visible through the patchwork structure. Until Lance's voice barely reaches them on the wind.

They reach the top, and Keith has the immense satisfaction of watching Matt's face light up in wonder. The canopy of dark leaves stretch out around them, small motes of light dancing above them like shifting, colorful stars.

He can hear the breath leave Matt's lungs.

He can see a new beauty in something he's always known as he watches it from the man's eyes.

It's in that moment that something blossoms in his chest. A bud that unfurls, bringing with it a wash of understanding. This. _This_ is what Lance has set out to do. To teach the humans. To make them _understand_. To give them the means to see Ionia through the eyes of the vastaya.

He tilts his head back and loses himself in the sea of stars and flickering lights.

 

* * *

 

 

It's a hunger unlike anything he's ever known. Consuming. Insatiable. He's able to push it to the wayside, but it's never truly gone. Not really. Not completely. It lurks in the shadows of his mind.

Waiting.

Lingering.

All it takes is a touch. A glance. A word. For it to come bubbling back to the surface.

All it takes is a moment of peace. A moment of stillness. A moment of quiet contemplation where the urgency of their mission is dimmed and danger is far. For that hunger to come surging back to the forefront of his mind.

Consuming.

Insatiable.

It burns beneath his skin. A buzz of need and intent coiled tight in his muscles. Making his body _ache_. It's a pressure in his chest, tight and ravenous, tearing him apart and consuming the remains. But it's also light. A giddiness. A strange weightlessness that bubbles in his gut and tingles in his fingertips.

It's unlike anything he's ever known.

He doesn't know if he likes it.

But he does know that he wouldn't give it up.

He's perched in a tree, sitting with his back to the trunk and one leg stretched along the branch, the other dangling off the edge. His wing sweeps out over his shoulders, down his back, feathers drifting in the wind. He holds a chunk of wood in one hand his dagger in the other. He had been in the process of whittling. What, he's not sure. But now he's been distracted.

His eyes are on the clearing below.

Shiro, Matt, and Pidge are gone. They've gone off to a nearby town for Matt to meet with one of his contacts in the rebellion, and they decided that it would be best to keep their numbers small. Keith and Lance both draw a lot of attention to themselves among human towns in Ionia. For two vastly different reasons.

Hunk has stayed behind as well, and he's currently getting lessons from Lance.

They stand in the clearing, aiming at wooden targets they set up across the river that trickles by. Lance holds his bow in his hand, arrows stuck into the ground at his feet. Hunk stands at his side, a sizable contraption in his hands.

It's some sort of Piltover technology. Something metal and bronze, with cogwheels and a shiny, sleek design. The heart of it is a glass chamber, in which a crystal is clutched between delicate looking prongs. With the device on, it hums with energy, crystal lighting up and sparking.

It feels like magic, but it isn't. Not completely. Not wholly.

And when Hunk shoots, it fires a concentrated projectile of energy from the long barrel.

Keith isn't sure how it works. He hasn't asked, but he's listened. It sounds complicated, and nothing at all like the magic he's used to. But Lance has told him that Piltover technology is based around drawing the energy from crystals to manipulate magic. It's strange and foreign, and though he's loath to admit it, Keith is put off by the concept of using a magic outside of oneself. Of not having or feeling that innate control. It seems far too dangerous.

Still, Hunk seems confident in his contraption, even if he's not confident in his aim.

That's where Lance comes in.

They stand together, and Lance walks Hunk through his aiming. He walks around him, wing trailing after him in a cloak of blue. He pokes at Hunk's posture, at his grip, at his stance. Pokes and prods with running commentary, and while Hunk grumbles and groans, he does as he's told.

It's a slow process of improvement, but there _is_ improvement.

That isn't, however, what's captivated Keith's attention.

It's Lance himself. It's when he steps up to demonstrate. It's his stature with his bow in hand, arm held up, arrow notched as he draws back the string.

It's his bare chest in the afternoon light streaming in through breaks in the canopy. It's in the tension he holds in his arms and his broad shoulders as he holds the string taut. It's in the strength of his legs and the way he stands tall. It's in the calm expression set onto his face. Relaxed and at ease, but eyes sharp as a blade.

The slight purse of his lips as he sights down the shaft of the arrow.

The tip of his tongue that peeks through.

The release of his fingers as the arrow flies, body remaining perfectly still.

Keith knows the arrow hit its mark by the curl of his lips into a small, self-satisfied smile.

Body still locked in place, his eyes flicker up to the trees, fixing on where Keith sits perched. Keith freezes as he's trapped in that gaze, transfixed by the way his eyes crinkle at the edges and his smile coils into a smirk.

Then his body is relaxing, and he looks away. He steps closer to Hunk, already talking again. Brief moment exchanged between them already passed.

But Keith still feels the hunger. He feels it rolling beneath his skin and curling in his gut. It's a heat unlike anything he's ever experienced before. A heat. A pressure. An _ache_. It's a need. A need to touch. To reach out and feel Lance's flesh beneath his fingertips. The smoothness of it. The strength of him. The heat of him. The cooling touch of his magic.

Keith wants to touch, and it's a desire that's insatiable. Even when he has Lance in his arms, it never seems to be enough. He wants to touch. To bruise. To tear into him with claws and teeth. To feel Lance do the same. He wants to chase away the sting with light, reverent touches and wet lips.

He wants to feel Lance writhe beneath him, restless with his own hungry beast of desire. Wants to feel Lance's hands on him. Wants to hear him pant, voice hoarse and ragged.

He wants it all, and it's never enough.

It's terrifying.

It's exhilarating.

But Lance is busy, and Hunk is around. So Keith holds himself steady. Holds himself back no matter how much it aches and how much his fingers twitch. He settles for merely watching. Waiting. Biding his time as the heat simmers beneath the surface.

He lets his gaze drag down the length of Lance's exposed torso. Let's his eyes trail along the broad shoulders and graceful curve of his spine. Let's his attention linger on his long, lean legs and narrow hips. Let's himself be lost in the playful curve of his fingers. Let's himself be transfixed by the temping curve of his neck.

He waits.

He watches.

He suffers.

And he's pretty damn sure by the ghost of a smirk and the sly glimmer in his eyes that Lance is well aware.

 

* * *

 

 

Shiro's recovery seems to be phenomenal and extraordinary.

He's been locked away in a galra prison for years upon decades upon centuries. His body still bears the scars of the things he's been through. He's only shared a glimpse of it, but Keith can draw conclusions from his own experiences and the tension in Shiro's voice. Torture. It's what the galra do with vastaya.

He's lost an arm. Nearly lost himself. Was suffocated for who knows how long without a touch of his own wild magic, suppressed to the point of nonexistence. Smothered with shadow magic and driven primal.

He doesn't remember most of it, having existed in a gaze to protect himself, and for that, Keith is glad.

Still, his recovery is far better than Keith could have hoped for.

He smiles often, and while it's not as carefree as it used to be, it's warm and genuine. There's an aging that happened, a sharp edge carved from the things he's seen, but he's still himself. He's still Shiro. He's encouraging and kind. He's patient and gentle. There's a laugh on the tip of his tongue and a curious eye that borders on childlike innocence.

He's a grounding force in Keith's life. He always has been. Makes him feel like he's no longer drifting away. Makes him able to breathe. To think. Keith hadn't realized just how chaotic his existence had become until Shiro is back to anchor him.

And he's still the same. Beneath the stock of white hair and the scars, beneath the shadows that chase him, he's the same. He's Shiro. He's the boy who found Keith in the woods, young, broken, scared, and alone. He's the boy who brought him back to the Marmora tribe and gave him a home. The boy who helped raise him. The boy who gave Keith someone to look up to.

He's still Shiro, and when Keith watches him from the sidelines, watching how he smiles and laughs and offers that guiding hand to the others, he feels a bubbling well of pride. Because the galra, try as they might, could not break him.

Matt may have been the one to pull Shiro out of darkness and be a safe haven for him to rest and recover, but Shiro is the one who managed to keep himself sane in the decades before Matt's arrival.

No matter how much he lost himself, no matter how bad things became, no matter how saturated with shadow magic his soul became, he held part of himself separate. Deep within himself, a spark of his magic and his soul, kept protected behind impenetrable walls. Safe. Waiting. Resting in a dreamless sleep.

They couldn't break him, and in that way, Shiro won.

And Keith is incredibly proud of him.

There are moments, however, when Keith can see the toll it's taken. When the scars and the shadows come to the surface. Moments of silence and inaction, when Shiro's gaze slips off to the distance and unfocused from the present moment. When his irises go dark and the bags under his eyes seem more apparent. When his brows pinch, his lips purse, and there's a tension on his features that make them sharp. Casting shadows across his face.

Body tense. Fists curled tight. Tail flickering restlessly. Teeth clenched until the tick in his jaw is visible.

It's in these moments that Keith gets a glimpse of the champion. Where the Shiro he knows slips away, and he sees a fraction of the Shiro he's had to become.

It's in these moments that Keith realizes that Shiro isn't immune to scars. He carries plenty with him, and most aren't visible. Sometimes they catch up to him, drag him into a daze as he relives flashes of memories. Regrets. Anger. Rage. Moments he wants to forget but can't. Has to face head on before he can accept.

It's in these moments that Shiro slips away. That Keith can see just how much the galra have changed him. That he feels far too far away.

And then he'll reach out. Matt will reach out. Pidge will reach out. Hunk will reach out. Lance will reach out.

They'll give a gentle touch to ground him, to pull him gently back to the present. Out of his memories. Out of his past. Ground him to the moment. Ground him to the here and the now.

They'll offer smiles. Gentle words. Nothing about what he's seen and nothing about what he's reliving. They change the subject, pull him back and ground him in what they're doing. Direct him back to the path. Back to the campfire.

Pidge will show him her drawings of the things she's seen in Ionia. Hunk will ask him to try different foods and spices he's found and ask about the things the Marmora tribe made. Lance will shove his lute into Shiro's hands and show him how to play, begging him to sing Marmora songs. Matt will rub his back and scratch behind his ears, leaning into his side as he speaks privately between them.

Keith will reach out for his hand, slipping his fingers between Shiro's and giving them a comforting squeeze. He'll drag Shiro off into the woods to explore and experience the wilderness around him. He'll remind Shiro of the beauty of the forest and their homeland. Taking them back to a time when they were children, innocent, and learning of the world.

The guilt stays with him. It weighs so heavily on his shoulders that they sag, and when he sighs, his entire body slumps with the weight of his sorrow and regret.

But when he smiles, it's still warm and genuine. It still reaches his eyes. His laugh may be hoarse and ragged, but it still bubbles out of him in earnest. His encouragement is heartfelt. His guiding hand is gentle.

He still stands tall.

He still stands grounded.

He tilts his head toward the wind, closes his eyes, and is able to _breathe_.

The galra could not break him, and his recovery is phenomenal.

 

* * *

 

 

"Lance?" Keith says into the night, voice hushed and private. The others are fast asleep. He can hear each of their steady breathing.

"Hmm?" Lance's hum is a rumble in his chest beneath Keith's cheek.

Cradled in the shadows of the night, blanketed by stars, surrounded by the hum of the ley line pool beneath them, protected by the ring of trees, and curled up into Lance's side, Keith broaches the question that's been weighing on his mind.

"What would you do if we got separated?" Voice a hushed whisper. Breath fanning out across Lance's torso, trapped beneath where Keith's wing covers them both.

There's a long pause, but judging from Lance's sudden stillness, he knows he's waking up. "What'd you mean?"

Keith curls a little tighter. Nails biting into Lance's exposed waist. Legs tensing where they tangle with Lance's. "If we get separated. Not by choice, but... we're wrapped up in a war. What if something happens... What if we get separated... Ionia is huge, and we spent centuries without running into each other..." His breath shudders out of his lungs. Turning his head, he nuzzles deeper into the crook of Lance's shoulder. Taking comfort in the beat of his heart.

"I'll always be able to find you." A quiet promise. Steady and sure.

But it offers little comfort. Keith realized long ago that he's taken Lance's ability to find him for granted. There may come a time when he can't find Keith. When Keith can't find him. They're together now, and Keith refuses to leave him behind again, but they can't predict the future. He once thought he and Shiro were inseparable, and then Shiro was taken away from him for centuries.

He doesn't like the thought of Lance being taken from him. Of being taken from Lance.

The thought twists and coils and hardens in his chest, leaden and dark, leaking shadows and doubts and fears into his heart.

In his long lifetime, he finally managed to find someone like Lance. Someone who makes him feel things he never imagined he would. Someone who makes him want to be better. Someone who taught him to treasure time. Someone who shook the chill from his core and taught him to _live_.

Someone who feels like home.

He doesn't want to lose that. Doesn't want to lose Lance. But he's lost so much. His parents. His tribe. Shiro. He can't lose Lance, too. He won't— He can't—

Lance tilts his head, pressing his lips to Keith's hair. "And if I can't find you, you know what I'll do?"

"What?"

He can feel Lance's breath in his hair. Hear the smile in his voice. His arms tighten around Keith, drawing him closer as his wing wraps up with Keith's. "I'll play."

Keith frowns, confusion pinching between his brows. "What?"

Lance chuckles, sound rumbling beneath Keith's cheek. "I'll play music. In taverns and towns all across Ionia. I'm famous, you know. People love to gossip about traveling entertainment, especially something as unique as a vastaya."

"So... you'll go back to what you were doing before we met."

"Yes, but I'll do it louder. I'll leave a trail. And you'll be able to find me. You're stubbornly persistent. You'll find me."

A lump forms in his throat, stealing away his words and his voice. He doesn't need them, though. Not with Lance. Not when he can press a soft kiss to his collarbone and match his breath to the rise and fall of his chest.

He falls asleep that night with the knot in his chest slowly unravelling.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ 〈〈 _Nature is wild and untamed, not balanced_ 〉〉 ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

 

"Lance, if you don't mind?"

"Hmm?" Lance glances over his shoulder, one eyebrow raised. He stands by the mouth of the cave, leaning a shoulder against the stone wall, arms crossed over his chest and one foot crossed over the other. He's been gazing out at the raging storm since they took shelter here, face relaxed, small smile on his lips, eyes lidded and dazed.

Keith has been watching him. The way his head bobs and tail sways as he softly hums a tune to the beat of the storm.

His attention, however, has been torn between that and whatever contraption Pidge and Hunk have been working on.

The four of them sought shelter once the first rumblings of thunder echoed in the distance. They barely managed to find the cave before the rain began to pour. While Keith is certain that Lance wouldn't mind being in the rain itself, their few possessions wouldn't fair well. So they decided to stop for the night and leave early to meet at the rendezvous point with Shiro and Matt.

They've split off on their own for now. They were vague about the reasoning, but Keith knows where they're going. They're passing close to the ruins of the Marmora village. Keith knows from the brief glance he shared with Shiro that he's taking Matt there. And that he'd prefer to do so alone.

It made Keith realize he wants to take Lance there one day.

Hunk holds up the palm sized crystal in his hand, translucent and jagged around the edges. Lance blinks, seemingly come back to himself as he straightens, pushing off the wall. "Oh, yeah, right. I gotchu, buddy."

He steps over to where the three of them sit around the small, meager excuse for a fire. Built out of what brush and dry timber they could find before the rain set in. Lance sits at Keith's side. Far too close. Leaning into his shoulder. Wings overlapping at the edges.

Keith turns to watch as Lance takes the crystal from Hunk, twisting so Lance leans against his side and he can see over Lance's shoulder.

The crystal is simple enough. Plain and ordinary. One of the most basic things that grow deep in the wilds of Ionia, near ley line pools and typically in cave systems. Keith has fractions of similar crystals on the beaded strand in his hair. Lance holds it between his palms, fingers curled around to cover it completely.

He closes his eyes, and Keith can feel his magic build, bubbling to the surface like a babbling spring. Welling and rising in a surging tide. Push and pull. Push and pull. Gradually and steadily rising. It pulses from his core, ripples spreading out through his body and dissipating into the air. Keith can feel it brush against him, soothing and cool.

Lance's hands glow as the pulsing energy focuses there. Bubbling in brief flashes of light. Pulsing and emulating from his skin. His fingertips.

When his magic recedes, he opens his eyes, opening his hands to reveal the crystal. The previously dull, translucent depths now pulse with a pale blue energy. A magic reminiscent of Lance's, but dull in comparison to the source.

He hands it over to Hunk, who takes it cautiously, breathing out a sigh of relief when the thing doesn't hurt him upon contact. He then turns to Pidge, who's fiddling with the contraption.

This one is a small box. Bronze and steel along the edges, top, and bottom. Two sides of the cube, opposite each other, are also solid metal with simple handles. The remaining two sides, front and back, are glass, giving a peek inside. The core of it has wires and prongs, ready and empty. The top is decorated by some sort of flattened bulb. A glass dome of sorts.

"What exactly does it do?" He asks, watching as Pidge uses a small tool to tweak the coils inside the cube.

"It's something Hunk and I designed," Pidge says, holding the cube up to their eye and peering in. After a short, scrutinizing gaze, tongue sticking out between her lips, she lowers it once more, reaching in with the tool again. "It's supposed to test the power of different crystals to determine whether or not the energy and magic are compatible with our tech. Ionian magic isn't compatible with Piltover tech, but Hunk and I have developed a new kind of technology that can withstand magic that's more chaotic in nature. Problem is that some magic is more wild than others, and we've realized that not all magic here is the same. So we built this device to test crystals and test magic to see if it'll work with our tech before we put it in the actual devices."

"So we don't accidentally blow up all our hard work," Hunk adds, scratching the back of his neck. "Which, we kinda did. A lot. At the beginning. Before we had the idea to build this."

"Ha! Done." Pidge sets the cube on her lap, setting the little tool aside as she reaches a hand out to Hunk. "Crystal, please."

He hands it to her, and she sets it delicately in the cube. She fiddles with the prongs until the the crystal is nestled snuggly, suspended between them. Then she closes the little glass door and holds it up. "We've tested it on some naturally formed crystals, and it seems to work. Those are the crystals that kinda, naturally absorb the magic in the earth around here. But Matt figured out a way to integrate our tech with empty crystals that can then absorb a vastaya's natural magic. It's how Shiro's arm works. He's the source, but the crystal stores his magic and uses it to power the arm. Like a feedback loop."

Keith leans a fraction closer to Lance, whispering under his breath. "I don't know what that is."

Lance chuckles, pushing his shoulder into Keith's. "I don't either, but whatever it is, it seems to work."

Pidge glares at them over the top of the cube, clearing her throat until she has their attention again. When she does, she grins, eyes glinting with a madness that has Keith shivering. "Anyway, point is, we got the idea to test different kids of Ionian magic, since we're traveling around Ionia anyway. We've already found different types of naturally formed crystals with different energy readings, and we got the idea to test your magic levels and see how they differ from Shiro's."

"We're already pretty sure Lance's magic is compatible," Hunk says, leaning back on his hands, smile on his lips. "He helped us develop the technology, after all. It took some adjusting to find a way to make it work with Shiro's, but it wasn't that hard. We figured the difference is because you're different kinds of vastaya."

Keith shares a brief glance with Lance, raising an eyebrow as Lance's eyes glint with amusement. A small, secret smile tugs at his lips.

"Watch this." Pidge holds the device by the handles, thumb reaching out to flick a switch.

The device immediately begins to hum, whirling to life in a way that isn't wholly natural and puts him immediately on edge. But he's been around them for long enough now to recognize the electric buzz of their technology. It doesn't frighten him as it had at first, but it's still off putting.

The inside begins to glow gradually, crystal becoming brighter and pulsing. Brighter, brighter, brighter. Until the pulsing stops, and it's just a consistent glow. The glass dome on top lights up, and Pidge looks down at it, smile on her lips at whatever she finds there.

"Yup, just as we thought. Lance's magic is strong, but easy on the tech." She holds it out for Hunk to see, and he leans over to gaze at the glass dome. Keith sits up a little straighter, trying to see around the fire, but whatever symbols are displayed in that dome, he doesn't understand.

Hunk hums, scratching his chin. "Yeah, but it's almost overwhelming. Like, if we used it for too long without reinforced circuits, it would probably fry."

Lance leans close, amusement lilting in his low voice. "I think that means I'm powerful."

Keith smiles, but keeps his eyes on the device glowing with the gentle blue light of Lance's magic. It's strange. The energy feels almost like magic, but completely foreign. And while he can find the similarities between it and Lance's magic, it's muted and distorted. No longer whole. No longer fully Lance.

"Yeah, but at least his magic is more predictable. Less chaotic and crazy than the ley line magic." Pidge flicks the switch, and the machine's hum slowly dies down, flow gently fading.

"I'm not predictable!' Lance protests.

Pidge snorts, reaching into the device to pull out the crystal. She sets it into a pocket of her bag and pulls out another one. Empty and dull. "Your magic is."

"We just mean that it's like, a gentle magic," Hunk offers with a smile. It soothes Lance's feathers.

"Keith, catch." Pidge tosses the new palm sized crystal over the fire, and Keith catches it with ease. "Fill that up with some of your magic, yeah?"

He glances between them, receiving encouraging smiles. So he does as Lance had. He cups the crystal between his hands, feeling the jagged edges push into this palms. Imperfect but perfect all the same. Closing his eyes, he dips into the well of magic within him, simple and natural as breathing. He pulls it to the surface, focusing the heat of it to his hands. Feeling it crackle and sizzle across his skin.

And when he's done, he hands the crystal back to Pidge, now faintly glowing a deep rose.

She does as she had before, setting the crystal into the device and adjusting the prongs to cradle the crystal firmly at the center. She closes the device, holds it up, flicks the switch, and they all watch as the crystal's glow begins to pulse. Much like Lance's crystal had. It pulses and pulses, growing brighter and brighter—

And then it sparks.

It crackles and sparks, pink and red energy leaps from the crystal to the prong, sizzling and arching to the coils within the glass chamber. It's loud and the sound is reminiscent of the splitting crackle of lightning outside their small cave.

Pidge jumps, holding the device at arms length, watching with wide eyes. Hunk gapes. Keith and Lance smile.

it's strange to feel the crackle of his own magic disconnected from himself. Foreign and strange and muted. But a part of himself, calling out to him.

The pulsing grows faster, faster, faster. It crackles and the arcs of energy become more frequent. The humming buzz from the device becomes frantic, uncontrolled.

Then a spark hits the metal. The prongs break. The coils smolder. A snap of energy that has Pidge flinching, device falling from her hands as she scrambles backwards.

It fizzles and pops. Crackles and _snaps_.

There's a flash of light, and then the crystal goes dull. The device smolders, small glass cube filled with smoke, leaking out cracks in the glass to trail up into the air. Keith can feel his magic dissipating back into the air. Seeping into the ground. A static in the air before it fades.

They all sit in silence for a moment, watching the ruined device smolder. The sound of a crackling fire, pouring rain, and the distant rumble of thunder filling the space.

Pidge is the first one to speak.

"What the _fuck_ was that?"

"Holy shit," Hunk breathes, blinking as he stares, wide eyed. "I did _not_ expect that." He turns to look at Keith, a tinge of fear and awe in his gaze. "What _is_ your magic? Lance's didn't do that. Aren't you guys both supposed to be Lho— Lhota—"

"Lhotlan," Lance offers, grin wide and eyes crinkling. "Yes, we are. But you guys assume that all Lhotlan vastaya have the same type of magic."

Pidge leans forward, poking and prodding at the device carefully and warily. She pauses to glance up over the rim of her glasses. "If it's not the same by tribe, then where's the pattern?"

Lance's grin only widens. "You're trying to find a pattern within chaos, little pigeon."

She frowns, straightening as she pushes her glasses up her nose. "There has to be a pattern."

"Our magic isn't defined by our tribe or our appearance. It's part of _who we are_. It's a reflection of ourselves. We are our magic, and our magic is us." He holds out a hand, pulling his magic to the surface, letting a bubble of light dance over his skin in a stream, twisting like a brook and rushing like a river. He twists his arm as it curls, wiggling his fingers as it weaves between them. "My magic is like water. It's a powerful but gentle touch. A subtle touch. My magic is playful. It charms. It dazzles. It protects. It's a powerful push and pull of tides that people find themselves trapped in."

He lets his magic sink back into his skin, hand dropping to his side. It lands overtop Keith's, fingers curling to fill the spaces between his. "Keith, here. Keith's magic is like fire. It's strong and powerful and upfront about it. It's like lightning, striking hard and fast before slipping away. It's consuming and devouring. Where my magic is defensive, Keith's is offensive. I am a shield, but he’s a sword." He tilts his head then, glancing at Keith from lidded eyes, small smile almost looking shy. "His magic is also warm and inviting for those who don't fear the flames."

"Well, fire boy over there smoked our calibrator," PIdge grumbles, pulling the smoldering crystal from the depths of her device. Her lip curls as she looks at it before tossing it aside. "Think we can fix it, Hunk?"

He's already scooted to her side, picking it up from her to get a good look. "Probably, but we're going to need more equipment." He winces. "Most of this is fried through. Aw well, it was bound to happen eventually. That's why we made it. So this doesn't happen to our actual gear. Maybe Matt has some ideas on how we can redirect the flow of more chaotic energies."

They continue to mumble between themselves, one barely finishing a sentence before it's picked up by the other. They go back and forth in an endless loop. Hunk picks apart what's left of their device while Pidge scribbles in one of her notebooks.

Lance watches them, a fond look in his eyes and the touch of a smile on his lips.

Keith leans forward, hooking his chin over Lance's shoulder. "Did you use your charm magic on me?" He asks, voice low and private, playful despite the curiosity he can't quite hide.

"No, you'd know if I did." He sees the twitch of Lance's smile. Feels the way his hand squeezes Keith's. His wing shift more, overlapping more of Keith's feathers. "Besides... I think I'm doing just fine without it."

Keith tilts his head, letting his nose trail along the column of Lance's neck, humming deep in his throat. "You're doing alright."

 

* * *

 

 

✦ ✧ 〈〈 _Once, magic was everywhere. Now our Vastayan essence fades with each passing day_ 〉〉 ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

 

According to Shiro, the Altean clan lives in the north eastern reaches of Ionia. Though their exact whereabout are unknown, he's heard enough rumors from galra and rebellion forces alike.

Their plan so far is vague. They don't know how to find the illusive human clan once they get there, but they figure getting to the north eastern mountains is a good start. Between all of them, they're bound to find some sort of trace to an ancient civilization. Especially if they're as powerful as Shiro claims they are.

Coming into port in the south west, they have the entire length of the country to travel. Even with consistent movement every day, it's taken a couple months to reach the foothills leading up to the mountain range.

They've been lucky so far. Shiro and Keith agreed that finding the Alteans should be their top priority. As such, they've picked travel routes that steer clear of known galra bases and activity. They haven't run into any patrols or scouting groups, and they've changed routes whenever they felt the prickling of shadow magic.

They need to find the Alteans quickly, and that means no detours.

This, however, is an unexpected find.

"This is recent," Keith muttered, crouched low in the shadows of the trees. One hand rests against a trunk, nails biting into the bark. He scans the field below through narrowed eyes. "The shadow magic is thick here. Sharp. It's only like that when it's fresh."

He sees Shiro's sharp nod out of the corner of his eye. He crouches next to him, tail flickering restlessly and ears pinned back. "This was a very sudden and extreme take over. The trees are already starting to wither."

Below them, across a dip of a valley, nestled in the crook of the distant tree line, is an old vastaya temple. It's a simple one. One of old stone make and ancient design. Architecture that looks like it was created from molten stone, rising from the earth in an imposing structure. Twisted by vines, rooted to the ground, and aged with time.

Like all temples like this, it sits on a wellspring of wild magic. A bubbling pool of energy, pulsing and feeding magic through the interconnected ley lines. Temples like this were made for vastaya safe havens. A place to worship and connect with ancestors. A place for healing. A place for safety and peace. A place of community and refuge.

It's supposed to be beautiful, and now it's corrupted.

The vines clinging to the structure are smoldering and blackened. The smooth stone itself looks cracked and fragile. The once long, lustrous grass that surrounds the temple is dried and brittle, snapping in the wind. The nearby trees have lost their color, leaves falling and branches crackling hollowly with the breeze.

The land around the temple is dying, and if Keith stares hard enough, he can swear he sees it spreading.

"I— I can feel it." He glances over to where Lance is on his hands and knees. He crouches on the other side of Shiro, fingers digging into the dirt, eyes wide and horrified and locked on the valley below. Keith aches to reach for him, but he's too far away, and if Keith uproots himself, he's not sure if he'll move to Lance or sprint to the temple. "I can feel the wellspring," Lance's voice cracks, but he doesn't seem to notice. "I can feel the magic _screaming_."

"They're getting bolder," Shiro says, voice distant and cold. It does little to hide the concern. "This is the closest they've ever come to Altean lands. They're expanding again."

"We have to do something." Keith can feel his muscles tense, energy coiling, ready to be released.

It's familiar. The ember and spark and flare of rage inside him. He's cleansed tainted temples before. It takes work, and it's draining, and it usually involves clearing out whatever galra soldiers are left to protect it, but it can be done.

"There's nothing we can do right now."

Keith whips his head around then, eyes snapping to Shiro's. He can feel the blaze of his magic, flickering and sparking within his core. "We can cleanse that temple _right now_. We used to do it with two of us. I used to do it alone. There's three of us now. We can—"

"Keith." His voice is sharp, but his eyes are sharper. Glinting silver and polished as steel as he meets Keith's gaze. Keith feels himself flinch, immediately wilting until the weight of Shiro's cold fury. As soon as Keith pulls away from him, Shiro's face softens, concern rising to the surface as the edge of his anger fades away. "We can't afford to make any rash decisions right now."

Keith grits his teeth, nails tearing into the tree bark as his fingers curl. "We can do this, Shiro. We can clear this temple _right now_. It's not out of our way, and—"

"Keith." That sharpness again, but it's softened by the note of a plea. The edge in his gaze softens to match, his voice lowering. "Think about this. Usually it takes them much longer to corrupt our temples. This happened fast enough to shatter the foundations of the ley lines." He grabs Keith's free hand, putting it to the ground with his fingers spread, his own hand overtop it. " _Listen_ to it, Keith."

He does. He grits his teeth until his jaw aches, muscles coiled and aching with unused energy, but he does as he's told. He closes his eyes, steadies his breath, and _listens_.

He can hear the wild magic screaming.

Silent and choked.

The wellspring beneath the earth is shattered and splintered, bubbling with corrupted energy that feels like tar. It leaks into the ley lines, spreading like corrosion in the veins of the earth.

But it's more than that. Keith can feel how the ley lines themselves are fragile, cracking on the edges. The veins of magic bruised and broken. Tainted magic leaks where it shouldn't. Pooling and leaking. A bruise of shadow within the ground. Within the air. Within the land itself.

Shiro's right. Whatever happened, it was sudden and unprecedented. Unlike any corruption Keith has ever seen. The force of it has shaken and broken the very foundations of the magic spring and the ley lines, instead of merely corrupting it.

This is new, and it's terrifying.

Keith feels his heart clench, tension in his body causing it to shake.

Shiro's hand squeezes overtop his. "It's not lost, but we need to be careful." Keith opens his eyes, lifting his chin to meet Shiro's gaze. There's a hard understanding there. A pain. A desire to act but an even stronger determination to keep that urge in check. He feels like an anchor, leashing Keith's own indignant fury. "We need to stick to the plan. Find the Alteans. We need allies. We can't do it all on our own." He smiles, encouraging despite the sorrow. "We'll come back. We'll cleanse all of them."

Keith feels the corner of his lip quirk, a wry smile despite the bubbling restlessness of inaction. "Patience yields focus?"

Shiro's eyes crinkle at the edges. "You remembered."

"I don't think I could ever forget."

"Uh, guys?" They both look up, but Lance's eyes are still on the temple below, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a tight frown. "Who the hell is _that?_ "

Keith turns to the temple in time to see galra spilling from its open doors. Most of them are unremarkable. They wear the same uniforms that most of the galra do. Clothes that are dark and nondescript and hide much of their features. Even from this distance, he can see the corrupted pallor of their skin where it's exposed to the evening light. The distant glow of their eyes. There's a decent mix of druids and average galra grunts.

What catches his attention, however, is the man who stands at the top of the steps of the temple. He stands tall and firm, broad shoulders and thick arms pulled back as he surveys the others, lips curling as he barks out orders that they can't hear from his distance.

It's clear from his stance and his elevated choice in clothes that he stands apart from the others. That he has a position of power. It's in the way the other snap to his orders and flinch under his voice.

They're too far away to make out too many details. There's some kind of metal surrounding his arm, and some type of blade strapped to his back.

What Keith _can_ see, however, is that the man is not galra. Not in the sense that he's always known, anyway. The galra are a breed of corrupted humans. Humans that gave given over their souls to shadow magic. Humans attempting to obtain even a fraction of the natural power and prowess of the vastaya. Creating a new being that's not quite human, not quite vastaya.

This man, however, is vastaya.

Or at least, he was.

Fur decorates his features. HIs face, his shoulders, whats exposed of his broad chest, his arms. His ears are similar to Shiro's, but lost in a wild mane pushed back from his forehead. His features are less human and more animalistic.

It's not uncommon for vastaya. There are many tribes who are born and choose to wear more features of their animalistic sides. Those who choose to look less human. Those with more fur and more feathers. Those tribes live further to the north. Further from human settlements. Not uncommon, and still just as vastaya as Keith and Lance and Shiro.

This man, however, is no longer vastaya. Not wholly. Keith can feel the pulse of shadow magic from him, beating in time with the tainted tar that throbs in the magic well beneath the earth. There's something dark and sickening in the way he moves, jerking and stiff, like he's lost the sound and rhythm of the music that all vastaya move to. His eyes glow yellow.

"He's vastaya," Keith breathes, saying the words they're all thinking. All shocked to find true.

"No." Shiro’s fingers curl around Keith's hand, nails biting. But when Keith looks at him, he finds that it's not in anger, but in fear that Shiro grounds himself in squeezing Keith's hand. The lines of his face are hard. His eyes are haunted. His lips are pursed. There are shadows Keith can only barely understand nipping at his heels. "He's not vastaya. Not anymore."

"You know him," Lance tears his gaze away from the temple, turning to gaze at Shiro. There's a hardness there. A defensive fury that's beginning to override his horror and pain. "Shiro, who is he?"

"Sendak," Shiro breathes. "I met him when I was a prisoner. I hoped I'd never meet him again." He stands then, pushing back into the forest and slinking into the shadows. Never once turning his back on the temple. "We need to go. We need to get the others far away from here."

Keith springs to his feet, eyes narrowing. "We can take them out now, before they realize we're here—"

"No. He's too powerful. We need allies first."

"But—"

"Keith," Shiro lets out a long exhale, breath shuddering as his body shakes. His hands squeeze into fists at his sides, tail thrashing behind him. "We'll come back for the temple, but we can't face Sendak on our own." His eyes are pleading. "Do you trust me?"

Keith feels his shoulders sag. "You know I do."

"Then save this fight for another day. We need to go."

It's only with extreme reluctance and a narrowed glare over his shoulder that Keith is able to walk away from the temple. From the distant and silent scream of wild magic. From the haunting visage of one of their own turned galra.

 

* * *

 

 

Keith is nothing if not impulsive.

He's gotten better over the years. First because of Shiro, and then because of Lance. But at his core, he runs on his instincts. He's as chaotic is nature. He's a vastaya. And he finds it hard to sit idly by when there's something he knows he can do.

He tries to abide by their plan. He tries to move with the group and focus on their destination. On reaching the mountains that loom in the distance beyond the foothills. He tries to focus on patience, breathing through the restless ache and burn of his rage. He tries to push the memories of the temple and the guilt that claws at his heart when he remembers the silent scream of the magic.

But he can't forget.

He can't forgive.

He's a creature of action, and he always has been.

Shiro pushes them onward at a grueling pace. One that Hunk and Pidge groan about, but make no move or plea to stop. Even they could see the shadows haunting Shiro's eyes and the stiffness of his shoulders. Matt hovers close behind, worry etched into his features and wariness in his gaze as he keeps an eye on the forest around them.

Keith hovers near the back of the group, slipping further and further behind as he feels the silent pleas of the temple call to him, drag him back.

Then, when the trail twists and turns, and the others disappear from sight, Keith ducks into the forest.

He takes several cautious steps, ears twitching as he listens to the others' voices fade away. When he's certain they haven't noticed his absence, he takes off at a run. He sprints back the direction they had come, through the trees. Hunched low, wing trailing behind him, toes barely touching the ground, he weaves through the trunks. Heart pounding in time with his footfalls. Blood screaming for vengeance.

A flash of blue darts out from between the trees ahead, and Keith has just enough warning to halt his momentum. It's abrupt and sudden, and he ends up stumbling into Lance's chest.

They sway for a moment, balance returning as their momentum settles. Lance pushes him back, far enough to look at him, hands locked firmly on his arms. "Keith—"

"What're you doing here?" He snaps, panic and guilt rising, squeezing his chest and mingling with the fury in his veins.

Lance's eyes are hard. Blue irises cold as a northern sky at dawn. His lips quirk into a wry smirk, but they don't touch that sky. "What does it look like? Stopping you from doing something stupid."

"I wasn't—" He chokes back the rest. Swallows the words. He knows he was, and so does Lance. He has no defense.

"Did you really think you could slip away without me noticing?"

"I was hoping." Keith offers his own dry smile, voice blank and even as he offers, "You're fast."

Lance shrugs. "When I need to be."

Keith steps back from him, and Lance's hands fall with reluctance. But he doesn't step forward. He doesn't reach for him again. Keith lifts his chin, lips pursed. "You can't stop me."

Lance smiles, small and sad. "I know I can't. But I can ask you to."

Keith's hear shudders, defensive words on the tip of his tongue faltering as the burning in his veins begins to cool in his surprise. "What?"

Lance steps forward then, but his hands remain at his sides. Keith meets his gaze. Those blue depths no longer cold, but pleading. There's a worry there. A fear. There's _pain_. A pain that Keith recognizes because he's felt it, too. He's used to seeing temples in that state, but Lance isn't. He's not used to seeing the full impact shadow magic has on their home.

He's scared, but behind that fear, Keith sees strength.

A rolling storm on the horizon. Clouds darkening and waters turning choppy. The chilling calm before a hurricane.

"I can't stop you, and I won't, but... I'm asking you to. I felt the power there, and I know you did, too. We need allies. We need a plan. You've been cleansing temples and ley lines for years, but they keep spreading. We need a new strategy. We need to find the Altean clan."

Keith looks away, teeth clenched tight. There's an ache in his jaw and a tightness in his chest. He knows Lance is right. He _knows_. He knows, but it _hurts_. It hurts to turn away. To leave it be, even if it's just for now.

Once upon a time, he would charge past Lance. Push him aside and push onward. Dive into the heart of that temple and fight tooth and nail.

Now he hesitates.

He's no longer in a haze.

It's no longer a fight at the cost of his own life. He has more to live for. _People_ to live for. He wants to do both. To live for them, _with_ them, and cleanse the temples and rid Ionia of galra.

He wonders if he can have both.

He wonders if it's selfish of him.

Lance steps forward again, taking a clenched fist between his hands. Soft hands with calloused fingers. He lifts Keith's hand, gently uncurling his fingers with an insistent but gentle touch. He puts Keith's palm flat to his chest, holds it there with both hands. Keith meets his gaze through his lashes, and finds Lance smiling.

There's pain in his eyes, a storm in the depths, but a madness on his lips. "And I promise if we see that man again, I won't try to stop you. I'll fight him with you. We'll tear him down together."

When Keith smiles, it feels like the wind. Wild and weightless. Fit to build up a raging storm and a burning wildfire.

 

* * *

 

 

"Just a little bit more..." Lance's voice trails off, tip of his tongue sticking out and pressing to his upper lip as his eyes narrow. He's close enough that Keith can count the freckles that hide in his dark complexion. That he can appreciate the blue markings that add beautiful contrast.

Keith wants to lean in and run his nose along those markings.

Wants to capture those soft lips with his own.

But he doesn't. He stays perfectly still as Lance adjusts his cloak because this is important to him. It's important for them.

"There! Perfect." Lance's lips split into a wide grin, eyes dancing as he leans back to look Keith over. His irises are dark in the night, but catch and glisten with the moonlight, glowing crystalline shades of blue.

His hands settle on Keith's shoulders, smoothing out the wrinkles in his cloak before sliding down his arms. His hands settle in Keith's, fingers moving automatically to intertwine.

His eyes grow lidded, grin softening into something more intimate. He leans forward to nuzzle his forehead against Keith's. It's a sweet gesture turned playful as he nuzzles just a little too hard, too wild, musing Keith's hair and getting his own to tickle Keith's nose.

A bubbling, breathless laugh escapes Keith's lips, and an answering rumble sounds in Lance's chest.

"Now we match," Lance says, low and gentle as he leans away, standing up to his full height and proudly puffing out his chest.

They both now wear broaches on their cloaks to pin them over one shoulder. Each broach made of a tiny bird skull that's been cleaned, petrified, and affixed with the necessary pieces to turn it into a pin.

It hadn't been Keith's intention, but this is where they've ended up.

Lance had been ecstatic about Keith's first courting gift. He had paraded it around to the others, infallible enthusiasm and excitement enough for all of them to push past any squeamishness they had over the animal skull. Lance had ended up taking the rope belt he wears on his waist and weaving it through the skull, letting it rest against his hip in decoration.

Keith couldn't deny the fluttering in his chest whenever he saw it. The tight squeeze of his heart and heat surging to his cheeks. He often had to look away, unable to stop the smile that always seemed to settle on his lips.

Lance had even gotten in the habit of dangling a hand by his side, stroking fingers along the petrified bone whenever he was lost in thought.

The fact that Lance had not only been overjoyed by Keith's gift, but also displayed it proudly, encouraged him to give him another.

The second time was a sea bird from Ionia, roughly the same size as the one from Piltover. Lance had smiled softly and kissed him roughly, handling him with reverent care even as his nails tore into Keith's back.

Then he had put the second skull next to the first, tied in the rope and hanging from his hip.

Pidge said it was grotesque.

Matt said it was sweet. He had his own small skull hanging around his neck. A gift from Shiro.

Lance continued to give Keith gifts as well. Shiny things. Sweet pastries from the towns they passed. A notebook and a charcoal pencil once he learned that Keith liked to sketch drawings into the dirt when they had downtime at night.

Keith had given him another skull. A smaller one. He had asked for Hunk's help with it, affixing it with the necessary components to turn it into a broach. Lance had wasted no time fixing it to his cloak, using it to pin it around his shoulders.

It had given Keith no small amount of pride to see Lance wearing his gifts.

It had made his heart skip a beat before launching uncomfortably into overtime when Lance had presented his own gift: a very similar small bird skull broach.

Keith looks at them now. Matching cloaks with different colors. Bird skull broaches affixed on the shoulder where they each are missing a wing. Opposites, but the same.

His own broach isn't crafted perfectly. There are scratch marks on the bone and chips where Lance had struggled to clean it. The use of his magic to petrify it had caused some discoloration here and there.

It's not perfect, but Keith loves it all the same.

Not only is it a gift, but it's a symbol of Lance reaching beyond his own courting customs. It's him reaching into Keith's world. The world he grew up in. Learning about him and giving him a piece of his own customs.

It's sweet in a way Keith hadn't been expecting.

Sweet in a way that makes him want to do the same for Lance.

He knows nothing about the details of courting customs in the Lhotlan tribe. Just the things that Lance has done and gifted him. But those don't seem like enough. Nothing seems like will ever be enough. Not for Lance. Not when he's this a bright and burning star that should be far too out of Keith's reach, yet remains in his orbit all the same.

He's not sure anything he can give will be good enough for Lance. Not that he wouldn't appreciate it. No, Lance has made it clear that he treasures all of Keith's gifts. But Keith desperately wants to give him something that means _more_. Something that could somehow represent all of what Lance has given to him. Done for him. Shown to him.

He's not sure he could ever find a gift that would even come close to representing just how important Lance is to him. Just how much he means.

Keith fixates on the skull on Lance's shoulder. The tiny broach on the side where he's missing a wing. A wing he would still have if it weren't for Keith.

It had been Lance's decision to follow him, but Keith feels responsible for it all the same.

His actions have taken some of Lance's feathers from him. Permanently and irrevocably.

Perhaps... Keith should give some back.

He drops Lance's hands, stepping back and turning to the side as he stretches his wing out. He runs his fingers through his feathers, feeling their sizes and shapes. He knows each of them practically by heart. Each one a piece of who he is. Each one a potential weapon.

He trails his fingers through him, lips pursing and brows furrowing as he pays special attention to the color patterns of each one. He's never paid this much attention to individual feather colors. His wing as a whole, yes, but never the pieces of it. In his hands, they were glowing daggers and nothing more.

But Lance deserves the best he has to offer, so he takes his time.

He picks out a few, plucking them from his wing and turning to find Lance's watching him. Head tilted and face a perfect depiction of curiosity. He never interrupts, though. Simply waits to see what Keith will do.

Keeping his eyes down, unable to meet Lance's gaze as heat rushes up his neck, flushing out his cheeks, Keith steps forward. He reaches up, pressing the small bundle of feathers to the base of the bird skull broach. His magic flashes and flares, gently warming his fingertips and following his will. He melts the base of his feathers to the skull, fixing them solidly beneath it so they flare out behind the skull, along the material of Lance's cloak.

Then he steps back, hand dropping and smile shy and he looks it over.

It's not perfect, and the feathers don't match his own, but at least this way, he has feathers back on that side. It may not be a new wing, but it's all Keith has to offer.

A piece of himself.

All of himself.

He may not be perfect, but he can be the wing that Lance is missing.

"It's not much," Keith says, fingers rubbing together at his side as a nervousness itches beneath his skin. "But... it's a piece of me to keep with you. I know they don't match your feathers, or your outfit, but— Lance?"

Lance isn't looking at him anymore. His head is tilted downward, eyes locked on the newly feathered broach. His lips part, eyes wide. He lifts a hand, hesitating before feeling the feathers, and Keith is surprised to see that it's shaking. Lance's chest is heaving. He bites his quivering lip, and his eyes become glassy.

"Lance?" He repeats, panic and confusion rising in his chest. Did he... did he do the wrong thing? He feels his own embarrassment flush his chest, crawling and itching up his neck. He stiffens, one foot taking a precautious step backwards. "Is that... not a thing we— vastaya— do we not do that?"

When he looks up, his cheeks are red, eyes still shining, but he's smiling. He laughs, and it sounds incredulous and surprised, bubbling out of him and exploding from his lips. "No! No, we do that. My— our tribe does that." His laugher dies down into chuckles, and he glances once more at the feathers. The smile on his lips doesn't fade. "Yeah," He says softer. "We do that." When he looks up again, there's a teasing tilt to his smile. "Though, it's usually a thing for one's Mieli."

"Oh," The breath leaves Keith's lungs in a rush. The heat on his skin feels like fire.

Lance steps forward, taking Keith's hands once more in his own. There's a light in his lidded eyes that's hard to identify, but it makes Keith's heart race and his knees weak. "I'd like to keep them, though. If that's okay."

Keith swallows around the lump in his throat, voice low and hoarse as he says, "I'd like that."

"And, you know..." Lance's arm snakes around Keith's waist, pulling him close as his other hand holds Keith's between them. His voice drops, but try as he might, he can't quite hide the nervous timber behind his smile. Nor can he hid the sheepish shyness from his gaze. "I can give you some of mine as well."

Keith smiles. A rush of exhilaration and relief like adrenaline in his veins. Making him feel giddy. Making him feel light headed. Making him feel a rush that's nauseating and off putting, but pleasant all the same. He runs a hand up Lance's chest, draping it over his shoulder to run his fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck.

Then he does what he's been aching to do.

Runs his nose along the marks on Lance's cheeks.

He leans forward and captures those soft lips.

They fall together among the dew coated grass, pressing it to the earth beneath the weight of their intertwined bodies. Skin glistening beneath the shine of the moon. Feathers catching the light of the stars. Hands clutching. Chests heaving. Lips desperately seeking.

They rise—

They rise—

They rise—

They fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out my social media to learn more about me, my writing, and this au!
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THIS FIC ANYWHERE ELSE.** This means you, Wattpad users.
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THE ART FROM THIS FIC.** This includes platforms such as instagram and pinterest.  
> Reblog it from the artist: [tumblr](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/184626995094/wild-magic-chapter-4-wittyy-name-has-been) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters/status/1124402015919116288)  
>    
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)  
>  **Artist's Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wolfpainters.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters)  
> 


	5. Part V: Flying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is never too late to learn. How to trust. How to love. How to hope. How to fall. How to fight. How to fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the longest chapter so far at 28k words. The last one will be even longer.

✦ ✧ _This was our world first_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

Ionia is a world all on its own.

From prairies to forests to mountain ranges. From beaches to cliffs to grasslands. Magic runs through the veins of the earth and vibrates in the very air itself. The landscape twists to the song. The creatures bend to the melodies. Even those too deaf to hear.

Keith has spent centuries wandering the large continent of a nation. He’s spent time observing humans, visiting vastaya, and chasing galra. He knows the forests that run like fingers across the landscape and the mountains that rise to high, snowcapped peaks. He knows the beaches that stretch to the oceans and the fields that sway in the wind like a sea of their own.

He knows the dried up scars of land the galra inhabit. He knows of the duller, bleaker human cities that are eerily silent for all the bustle they house.

He thought he knew Ionia like an extension of himself, but he should've known that Ionia always has surprises. Always has new things. Always finds a way to awe him and leave him in wonder of the land from which he was born.

He's never been to the north eastern reaches of the continent. He's never had a reason to. The humans settlements tend to cluster in the south and west, closer to the harbors leading to the mainland. The galra claimed the territory to the north west, spreading their influence through the continent in shadowed, fractured lines. The ancient vastaya homelands lie to the far north, but their people have spread throughout the continent, finding and building homes in pockets all over.

The Marmora lands were further to the west, tucked close to the mountains where the galra hailed from, making them easy targets and some of the first victims of the galra influence. Since then, Keith has traveled where he must, movements dictated by his cause and necessity. He's never had a need to travel to this region.

Until now.

Everything he's ever known is left behind when they travel over the land bridges that connect Ionia's mainland with the north eastern island. Separate, but still connected.

Bridges made of arching rock, cobbled stones worn and smooth and overgrown with disuse. Pidge walking confidently, in awe of the light motes that seem to dance across the bridge. Hunk walking behind her, slower but no less awed, carefully not looking down to the churning dark waters below.

Thick vines and trees, twisted together and stretching over the strait that cut between the landmasses. Thick and sturdy. Creating a canopy and blossoming flowers that glow in the dimming light. Shiro and Matt clambering across the pathway, crawling and helping each other over spots where the plant life grows haphazardly.

Spires rising from the water below. Close together and in a path, creating stepping stones that he and Lance dart across. Leaping from step to step, wings flared as they catch the wind. Laughing as they race. Scrambling up the cliffside when the spires end.

The air is... different.

It feels sharper in his lungs. Fresher. The magic here is stronger. Wilder. Far more chaotic than anything he's used to. It dances like electricity across his skin. It makes his hair and his feathers stand on end. It makes his heart race and blood sing, urging him to run, to dance, to be... _free_.

He's heard the northern parts of Ionia are where the veil that separates them from the spirit realm are thinnest, but he hadn't realized just how much he'd be able to _feel_ it. Standing still makes his body ache. His bones feel light. He feels... _rejuvenated_ , in ways he never imagined possible.

He feels _alive_.

He feels Lance's laugh like the crackle of a storm and the crashing of waves.

He feels Shiro's laugh like the tear of wind through trees and the howling of distant mountains.

He feels his own laugh like a heat in his chest, a whirlwind of wildfire that ignites like lightning through his veins.

He hears the humans laugh, but it sounds muted and dull in the wake of vastaya voices. Not just theirs, but vastaya from millennia past. The echoed voices of the Vastayashai'rei from the other side of the veil. Ancient beings who look upon the children of their own creation and rejoice.

In the wild, untamed reaches of Ionia's northern reaches, Keith feels...

He feels...

He... feels.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _Chaos is the preferred state of nature_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

He's no stranger to chasing rumors. He's done so for centuries. Following whispered words and letting gossip guide him.

As such, he's familiar with the frustration that comes when a lead runs dry.

"This sucks," Pidge huffs, voice trailing to a strangled yelp as she once again on the roots and vines that crawl across the pathways. Keith peers down from his perch, watching as she stumbles, pointing angrily at the ground. "Okay, I _know_ they're doing that on purpose! I _saw_ it this time! The vines are moving, I swear."

Lance's chuckle comes lilting on the breeze, voice drifting from within the home Keith perches on top of. "The forest is having fun with you, Pidge."

"I hate forests." She sits on the lip of a cracked stone fountain, crossing her arms and legs, shoulders hunched. "I thought the ones outside Piltover were bad, but at least those ones didn't try to kill me."

"It's not trying to kill you," Shiro says from across what had once been a village square. His hands rest on his hips, tail flicking the air behind him and ears twitching restlessly. He turns slowly, eyes roaming. "It's just... playful."

"You talk like it has a mind of it's own."

"It does!"

Keith looks down to see Lance crawl out of one of the building's windows. He dusts himself off, straightening his clothes and taking gentle care to check Keith's feathers pinned to his cloak. He knows the feathers are far more durable than that, but the fact that he checks them incessantly makes a warmth flicker in Keith's chest.

"All forests do, but here the magic from the spirit realm is so thick that it saturates everything. The forest is actually able to act on its mind instead of standing idle."

"Great," Pidge says dryly. "So it's alive. Wonderful."

"Technically, all forests are alive." Hunk walks out of the building below Keith, using the open doorway. There's a bundle of bound parchment in his arms.

"You know what I mean," Pidge snaps, but Hunk hardly notices.

"Guys, this is so _cool_. I found some books? But they're like, _really, really_ old books. It's in a language I don't even understand! I found a couple in what I assume was the kitchen, so maybe they're cook books? I found a few others scattered in the house. Do you think the Alteans can help us decipher them?"

"Probably," Matt says, swinging down from atop another building on a loose branch. He lands easily, picking a leaf out of his hair. "If they're really as old as people say they are. I agree with Hunk, though. This is _amazing_." He throws his arms out, gesturing to the village as he spins. "This is a footprint of ancient Ionian civilization. Back when people used to work with magic and natural to build their homes. I've read about it, but I never thought I'd see it."

"Too bad it's abandoned," Keith mutters.

"Well, yes, there is that."

Keith crosses his arms over his chest, taking a step back to turn and let his eyes scan across the village. It isn't the first they've come across. Since setting foot on this island, they haven't seen a single living person. Aside from the spirits and animals, they had nothing but eerie silence to keep them company. Even the strong melody of magic couldn't detract from the feeling of emptiness that settled across the landscape.

Like all the other villages they'd come across, the buildings of this one were woven from the trees themselves. Not built from the trees, but rather that the trees had grown and shaped to suit the village needs. They'd seen all sorts of natural architecture as they'd ventured deeper into the island. From all sorts of plant life and the earth itself. The buildings they'd come across settled naturally into the landscape rather than stand atop it.

He'd heard of such magic. Nature magic. The ability to communicate with the energies of the earth. To call out to the magic of living things and will them to grow in specific ways. Wood weavers. Earth builders.

Many vastaya villages were made in a similar way, but he'd heard that long ago, humans could use this kind of magic. He never truly believed it, but now the proof was all around him. On an island that had been abandoned and left an empty husk for spirits to roam.

The humans had fallen far if this is where their ancestry lied.

"Pidge, you have a few..." Keith glances down to find Matt sitting on the lip of the fountain next to Pidge, gesturing vaguely around his head.

Pidge sighs, shoulders slumping. There's a faint glowing bobbing around her head. Two of them. "I know. I tried getting rid of them, but they keep coming back." As Keith watches, the glowing seems to solidify. Two spirits, pale in color and bodies fat and round. Looking like palm sized caterpillars with large eyes and markings that pulsed with light. They became more corporeal, nuzzling into Pidge's hair. "Besides," She says, unable to stop her smile. "They're kind of cute, I guess."

"They think your hair is a nest," Matt snickers, and Pidge playfully shoves him.

Shiro sighs, arms crossing over his chest. "I don't think we're going to find much here."

They all glance over, smiles fading, but it's Pidge who speaks up first. "What're we looking for anyway?"

"At this point, I'd say we're looking for _any_ sign of life around here. We know the altean monastery used to be on this island, we just don't know where or how to find it," Matt says, leaning back on his hands, eyes on Shiro.

"You said they've been missing for _thousands_ of years," Pidge says, slight frown as she stares at Shiro's back. Her voice softens. "Are we sure they're even still alive?"

"No," Shiro breathes out a long sigh. "But we have to hope. We have to make sure. The galra are still wary of them, and the galra fear nothing. That's as good of a reason as any to believe they're still alive."

"Maybe they don't want to be found?" Hunk shifts his weight as eyes turn to him. He busies himself with organizing the bound parchment in his hands, shifting them gently into his bag. "I mean, _obviously_ they don't want to be found. That's why they've been missing for like, forever. But maybe they _really_ don't want to be found? What if they don't want anything to do with us or Ionia?"

"We're not going to give them a choice," Keith says, perhaps a hair too sharply.

One of Shiro's ears swivel in his direction, and the look in his eyes is of exasperated fondness. "Everyone has a choice, Keith. We just need them to hear us out."

"What if they don't want to listen?"

"Then we'll just have to be super convincing, won't we?" Lance scrambles up the building, feet and hands finding easy holds in the woven and twisted bark of the tree. He pulls himself up to Keith's perch on a wide, flat expanse that serves as a roof and a ledge before the tree continues to spiral upwards.

He hooks an arm over Keith's shoulders, leaning into him and offering a curl of his lips. He leans in close, breath whispering against the fur of Keith's ears. "I've heard I'm very convincing."

A shiver runs down his spine, and while Keith says nothing, Lance seems pleased with himself nonetheless.

"Do we have _any_ idea where the monastery is?" Pidge asks, looking to Matt who only shakes his head.

"Unfortunately, no. Everything I've read and everyone I've talked to just says that it was located at the heart of the north eastern isle." He purses his lips, looking up at the trees that towered above them. "I was kind of hoping we'd just... wander around and eventually find someone who could point us in the right direction. Ask the locals, you know? Should've known it wouldn't be that easy. Everything I've read about explorers trying to find the monastery says it's impossible. Like the whole place just disappeared without a trace."

"How does a whole monastery and civilization just..." Hunk waves a hand around vaguely. " _Disappear?_ "

Shiro steps closer to where they gather near the fountain. His brows crease as he stares at the moss covered stonework, tail twitching behind him. "The Alteans were known to be masters of magic. From legends, we know that they were apart of an ancient order dedicated to keeping the balance in Ionia. They watched over spiritual gates and the ley lines. It's entirely possible that it's magic that's keeping them hidden."

"Cool, so we just gotta find a magically hidden ancient civilization," Hunk says, nodding as he closes up his bag and swings it over his shoulder once more. "Easy. No problem."

Pidge turns to Matt, and even from here, Keith can see the clockwork turning behind her eyes. "Do you think we could reverse engineer our magic analyzer to _seek_ magic instead? Like read the levels in the air?"

Keith watched that brilliant spark of magic light up Matt's eyes. "Because if they're being hidden by magic, then there's gotta be a huge concentration of it."

"That would at least lead us in the right direction."

They keep going. A back and forth with no end. Finishing each other's thoughts and sentences. That precious madness flaring between them. Then Hunk joins a grounding force that allowed them to grow. Keith doesn't understand most of what they're saying, but he supposes he doesn't need to.

Shiro looks about as lost as he feels, but he's at least making an attempt to understand.

"I think we're going about this the wrong way." Lance's voice is light and thoughtful, soft enough to be kept private. Keith tilts his head, eyeing him sidelong and lifting a brow to show he has his attention. He watches Lance's profile as he frowns, brows furrowing as he tilts his head. He gestures to those below. "We're going about this like _humans_."

"The Alteans are human."

The pinch between his brows relaxes, and his lips start to ease upwards. "True, but they weren't blind, nor were they deaf." Lance tilts his head, catching Keith's gaze. There's a sharpness there, and a gleam in his smirk. "Shiro said they were masters of magic and keepers of spiritual gates. What are we, Keith?" His voice dips, and a shiver runs through Keith.

He feels his own lips curl in an answering grin.

Lance steps away from him, arm leaving Keith's shoulder but hand running down his arm to clutch at Keith's as he turns to face him. "We're children of the spirit realm. They might be masters of magic, but we're _born_ from it. I think it's time we stop acting like humans and start acting like _vastaya_."

His fingers curl between Keith's, grin wide and fangs glinting in the light peeking between the trees. Keith smirks, heart beating wildly in his chest. He understands.

He drops to a crouch, pulling Lance with him. Lance drops at his side, allowing the tug to drag him down. Keith presses their joined hands to the bark beneath them, smooth and woven and ancient, but still very much alive.

He closes his eyes.

He breathes out.

He feels his magic swirl in his core. Bright and vibrant. Harsh warm hues. Warming to deeper purples and indigos and violets.

He feels Lance's magic next to him. Nearly as bright as his own. Washing over him. Cool and soothing. Grounding as it is chaotic. Powerful and rolling. Strength hidden in the illusion of calm. Blues of every shade, swirling and igniting together.

He feels the clash where their hands touch. The sparks where their energies connect. Arcing toward each other. Unable to resist. Unable to stop the attraction, even on a molecular level.

Reaching out, he feels the energy humming through the tree. Chases it down to the earth, where the ley lines run thick and uninhibited. They fracture outward. A spiderweb of fissures that run endless through the ground. He feels where the plant life draws from them. He feels the way it radiates from the earth into the air.

He feels the forest.

He feels the animals.

He feels the ley lines.

He feels the minor spirits that drift through the trees and hover just out of reach, drawn and curious by their presence.

He feels... something stronger. A tug. A distant pull. Something calling to him, but not in any manner he's familiar with. Faint and fleeting. A whispered question.

He snaps his eyes open, gaze locking with Lance's. His eyes are bright. Crinkling at the edges. Dancing with the dust motes.

"You felt it." It's not a question.

Lance's smile curls wide. "Yes."

"What is it?"

"Only one way to find out."

They leap from their perch, darting off into the village with hands still joined. He can hear the others' shouts of surprise. He can hear the questions. He ignores their fading voices, focusing on that distant tug.

They weave through the village, darting between trees that shape homes. Abandoned and empty husks within the woven trunks. Though the shadows and the rays of light drifting down from between branches.

Lance slows at his side. "I lost it."

Keith's hand tightens around his. "I didn't."

He still feels it. Getting stronger and stronger. He realizes that he's following the ley lines. That they're all converging on a point ahead. He pushes his pace. Feet barely touching the grass-lined cobblestones. Lance runs at his side until Keith pulls ahead. Until his hand slips from Keith as Keith darts ahead. Faster. Faster. _Faster_.

He stops when he reaches another clearing. Another square within the village. He stops suddenly, brought up short by a feeling in his gut. His momentum carries his wing forward, feathers rustling as they settle back down his back.

The ley lines pool here, creating a small wellspring that was no doubt once the village's heart. At the center of the village square is a pillar of stone. It rises from the earth, somehow looking natural despite the deliberate craft to it. The smooth spiral and twisting rise of it.

He steps closer, eyes narrowing at the symbols carved around the pillar. He doesn't recognize them, but he feels like he should.

He feels a presence. A sudden power that makes his hair stand on end and his feathers bristle.

He spins into a crouch, wing automatically flaring out and fingers combing through his feathers, plucking three at random. Magic sparks at his fingertips, sharpening and steeling them.

His eyes lock onto a creature that hovers at the edge of the square, tucked into the shadows of two buildings.

A spirit.

A powerful spirit at that.

Keith can feel the energy radiating from them. Cold on his tongue and washing over his skin like water. Strangely soothing, but sharp enough to keep him on edge. The spirit's body, while corporeal, seems to blur at the edges. Wisps of mist curling from it and obscuring its form. Blue of all shades, swirling and shifting and constantly in motion.

The form of... a lion? Certainly a cat of some sort. Body large. Ears pointed and curled at the tips. Tail thin and flickering, a tuft of hair at the end. Features sharp in places that seem odd and rounded at others. A feline, yes, but definitely a spirit creature.

It stares at Keith, and Keith stares black. Unblinking. Wary. It doesn't feel malicious, but he can never be too certain. Spirits rarely mean harm, especially to vastaya, but he fears if he looks away, the magnificent creature will disappear.

It's gaze, however, is fixed to him. Eyes dark and endless as the night sky. Drawing him in. Seeing through him. Taking the weight of his soul and measuring it.

His breath is caught in his lungs.

Then there's a rustle behind him. A familiar press of cool magic. A soft inhale, and a gentle rush of air. "Whoa..."

The spirit's eyes leave Keith's, snapping to Lance instead. Keith finds himself still unable to move. Waiting, though he isn't sure for what.

A flash of blue in the corner of his eye. " _Lance,_ " He hisses, but Lance is already moving forward.

His steps aren't wary, but they're slow. Deliberate. He moves forward with the same grace that fills his every movement, swaying up to the spirit with a confidence that lacks cockiness. When he nears, he drops to his knees, holding his hands out.

And Keith watches, amazed and awed, as the spirit moves forward. As it bumps its head into Lance's hands. As Lance _laughs_ , hands running through the mane of mist.

Lance cradles the spirit's feline head in his hands, leaning forward to press their foreheads together.

Keith hears the clatter of footsteps, loud in the silence. The voices of their friends. He hears their heavy breathing and loud arrival. He hears them stop behind him. Their soft gasps.

"What's... what's he doing?" Hunk asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Lance turns then, head whipping around and grin catching the light as his eyes dance. "Guys! I know where we need to go!"

Keith feels a tug at his lips. "He's asking the locals."

 

* * *

 

Blue.

The spirit's name is Blue.

At least that's what Lance calls her.

She leads them through the wilds of the isle, set on a path none of them would have picked out on their own. While they only seem to speak to Lance, their aura is welcoming. Curious. Soothing. Friendly. He doesn't know where they're going, but Lance is confident that Blue is showing them the way. And Keith trusts Lance.

They walk until exhaustion demands they stop, and as Keith curls into Lance's side, he finds sleep easy to slip into with Blue watching over them.

 

* * *

 

"Are we _sure_ we can trust it?" Hunk asks, not for the first time, and Keith doubts it'll be the last. He takes up the rear of their procession, and he does nothing to hide his wariness.

"Her," Lance corrects automatically, turning on his heel to walk backwards at Keith's side. The two of them lead the group, following after the blue lion spirit as she guides them through the thick forest. "And yes, we can trust her."

"But how do you _know?_ She's like... a spirit, man! We don't know anything about spirits."

Keith glances sideways, shadow of a smirk tugging at his lips at Lance's pointedly flat stare. "Hunk, buddy, my man, my favorite human in all of existence. No offense, Pidge and Matt."

"None taken." The two echo in unison.

The edges of Lance's lips tilt with the smile he's trying to repress. "Hunk, you do know what vastaya are, don't you?"

"Well, yeah. Of course. You're animal people native to Ionia." There's a long pause, and Keith catches Lance's sidelong glance. Feels his lips curve in a mirrored amused smirk. "Right? Oh man, you're all staring at me. That's not right, is it?"

Lance laughs, and the sound is like chimes on the wind. Light and fleeting. But it's Shiro who answers, patient and kind, though amusement still colors the edges. "Many millennia ago, when the world was new and before humans had nations, a tribe of humans living in Ionia were fleeing from the Great Void War. The refugees were taken in by powerful humanoid spirits living in northern Ionia, known as the Vastayashai'rei. All vastaya are decedents of their children."

"Whoa," Hunk breathes. "So you guys are spirits?"

Shiro chuckles. "Sort of. It's not that simple. Yes, we have their blood and we're connected to the magic in Ionia, but we're born of flesh and blood here in the mortal realm."

"So when I say I trust Blue, I mean it." Keith reaches out, gently grabbing Lance by the arm and tugging him to the side to avoid a rise in tree roots. He barely seems to notice. "I spoke to her, told her what we were here for, and she told me she would take us there."

"That easy?" Pidge says, and Keith can hear her skepticism.

"Yup," Lance beams. "Guess she likes me. Must be my irresistible charm."

Keith lets Lance trip over the next bump in the path, but is there to catch his flailing limbs and keep him upright. Lance's glare is little more than a diluted pout, and Keith merely smirks. He tilts his chin, gesturing sharply to the path ahead. "We're nearing a dead end."

Lance turns on his heel, and their pace slows. For the past two days, Blue has been guiding them through the wilds of Ionia, deeper and deeper into the heart of the isle. They've been on a steady incline. Moving up through the forests and moving toward where the rising hills meet the central mountain range.

The path ahead of them ends abruptly in a wall of stone. A mountain juts rigidly from the forest, rising high and sharp. A cliff towering high above them. It's a natural wall. A barrier. One without any clear way to get around. The trees and greenery press right up to the vertical stone surface, vines and moss crawling up it. But when Keith tilts his head back, he can see the treetops end and the mountain continues upward.

He thinks they could climb it, but it would be dangerous for the humans, and it would take some time.

Blue has stopped ahead on the path, standing in front of a wild patch of vines and moss that climb up the side of the rock face. She watches them, eyes dark and vast and mist curling off her blue form. Her tail flicks as they approach.

Then she turns and walks straight through the patch of vines.

Keith freezes, and Lance stops at his side. The others come up alongside them, confusion and unease sparking between them.

"Where did she..."

"She disappeared!"

"What the fuck?"

It takes only a moment before Lance is rocking forward again, stepping purposefully up to the cliff face. He stops in front of it, one hand on his hip and the other scratching his chin. As they watch, he reaches out hesitantly, fingers stretching toward the thick wall of vines.

His hand moves straight through it without resistance, disappearing and leaving his arm looking like it was cut off at the wrist.

He pulls it back quickly, pauses, then reaches forward again. The same thing happens, and he whips his head around, eyes bright and grin wide. "Guys! It's an illusion!"

"Lance, wait—“

But he's already stepping forward, disappearing seamlessly into the mountain.

Keith is moving before the others can stop him. He darts forward, barely stopping before barreling through the illusionary wall of vines and rock, arms outstretched and heart hammering in his chest.

Passing through feels like stepping through a waterfall. Cool and chilling. Pressure pushing in at him from all sides. A static of energy running across his skin.

Then he's through, the feeling ends abruptly, and he collides with Lance's back. The two of them tumble to the ground in a heap of limbs and feathers. Grunts and hisses leave their lips as the air is knocked from their lungs.

Keith pushes himself up onto his hands and knees as Lance turns under him, propping himself up on his elbow. He gets to his feel first, offering a hand to pull Lance up. Lance smiles, reaching out to wipe a smear of dirt from Keith's cheek. Keith ducks his head, straightening the bird skull broach on Lance's cloak and straightening the feathers he gave him.

Then the others come through the illusionary wall, much slower than Keith had, and their soft gasps fill the space.

They find themselves in a tunnel cutting through the mountain. Wide and tall. Edges jagged and natural, but worn smooth with time. The tunnel is lit by the dim glow of moss and flowers that stretch across the walls. It stretches as far a they can see.

Tall statues of men and women line either side of the tunnel, placed evenly apart, and each one dressed in some sort of regalia. Some with swords. Some with staves. Some with neither. Some in fancy dress and others in armor. The pulsing glow from the flowers casts relief across the smooth stone of their faces, shadows stretching in the hollows of their features.

And down the hall, standing at the center and waiting, is Blue.

When Keith looks to her, he feels those deep, endless eyes on him. Feels a shiver run down his spine as their gazes lock. Then she turns, and continues down the hall.

And they have no choice but to follow.

The tunnel is long, lined with towering statues of silent figures. Pulsing in pale colors from the vegetation that grow through the cracks. Keith and Lance lead the way, but he can feel Shiro at his back. A strong and resolute presence. He loses track of time as they walk, eyes roaming the statues as they pass.

The incline of the tunnel is gradual enough that he can feel it in the burn of his legs, but he can't see the slope.

After an eternity in the dim light of the tunnel, nerves tight with anticipation, they see the light at the end of it. Growing brighter. Bigger. He sees the blue skies beyond and can smell the crisp wind.

They step out of the tunnel, pausing as the sight steals the air from their lungs.

They step out into a large valley. A bowl cut from a close circle of towering mountain peeks.

They stand at one end of a wide land bridge. It stretches over a chasm that cuts straight down to a raging river below. Across the bridge rises a large monument of a building, with twisting walls and towering peaks. It sits atop a large plateau that's separated from the tall mountain walls of the valley around them. The land slopes from it, running fields of green and other buildings that rise like clusters of trees and rock from the earth as the valley stretches onward.

The sound of the water rushing below. The whistle of the wind through the trees of the valley and howl of the mountains. Birds fly overhead, wings cutting across the crystal sky.

Blue pauses halfway across the bridge, digging her paws in as she lifts her head and _roars_.

It's loud, cutting through the serene landscape, deep and rumbling as it echoes across the valley.

Keith winces, body tensing. Lance flinches, arms tossing up into the air and he drops into a crouch. He can hear the others shift behind them, shuffling feet as they step away. They all wait, breaths held, but nothing happens.

When the last of the echoes fade, Blue continues forward.

"What now?" PIdge asks.

"What is this place?" Hunk follows up.

"I think..." Shiro trails off, voice awed. "I think this is the Altean monastery."

"I think our friend there just announced our arrival," Matt adds wryly.

"Then I suppose we shouldn't keep anyone waiting." Lance moves forward, light on his feet as he turns. He bows low, wing held aloft and feathers gleaming in the sun as he stretches a hand out to Keith. He looks up through his lashes, eyes matching the sky above and the chaos of the waters below. "Shall we?"

Keith smirks, slipping his fingers seamlessly into Lance's. Loving the way his thumb moves across Keith's knuckles. The way his hands tighten just a fraction before he turns, tugging Keith across the bridge at a brisk pace.

Flowers grow in clusters across the bridge, in patterns and patches that seemed far more natural than planned. They walk on a pathway of stone, and while it doesn't look purposefully cut, it's smooth and artisanally tailored for the bridge.

The monastery itself is a massive building, and it takes him a moment to realize that it's a tree. An ancient and hulking tree that grows atop the plateau platform. He had originally taken the spiraling and coiling structure that formed the archway over the tall entryway to be stone. As they draw closer, he realizes it's wood. Wood woven and sun into a sturdy and spiraling foundation to the building, petrified with age to be gray and white as polished stone.

The woven wood forming the outside of the monastery is weblike and fluid, vine like roots and trunks forming patterns and designs in the architecture. Somehow looking both purposeful and wildly natural.

The bridge ends at the looming archway, beyond which are wide stone steps leading up to towering double doors.

The doors are wide open when they reached them, and Blue sits in the threshold. At her sides are a man and a woman.

The man is pale in complexion with bright orange hair swept back from his forehead. He looks human enough, but there are blue markings beneath his eyes and a point to his ears. The woman's skin is much darker and richer. Hair white as snow where it cascades down her back. Pink marks beneath her sharp eyes.

They watch as their group gathers at the base of the steps. The woman's hands clasp in front of her, and the man idly twists the edges of his mustache between his fingers.

"Greetings," The man says, and while it's friendly, there's an underlying amusement that Keith doesn't understand. "My, what a ragtag group this is. I do hope the tunnel hasn't been too overrun. It's been a very long time since we've had visitors."

"We come peacefully," Shiro says, stepping forward. Keith eases to the side to let him speak. Lance is less inclined to ease into the shadows, but he keeps his fingers tangled with Keith's. Shiro stands tall and proud, respectful but confident. "But our mission is one of urgency and importance. We've come to speak with the Alteans."

The woman's lip twitches at the corners, forming the ghost of a smile. "It seems you have found us." Her voice is elegant and smooth, but there's the same edge of faint amusement. "The first travelers in quite a while." She reaches out, resting a hand atop Blue's head and running her fingers through the spirit's misty mane. "It seems one of our guardians has taken a liking to you. We trust their judgements, and you are welcome here."

Keith steals a glance at Lance, unsurprised by the grin he finds there.

"I am Allura, master of the Altean monastery." She gestures to the man on the other side of Blue. "And this is Coran, my trusted advisor and long time friend."

"I'm Shiro, of the Marmora tribe," He says, and Keith thinks he sees a shadow pass over Allura's eyes, but it's gone quickly.

Matt steps up beside Shiro, sliding his hand into Shiro's. "I'm Matt Holt, from Piltover."

Allura's eyebrows rise. "You are a long way from home."

Matt grins. "Yeah, it's... a long story."

Pidge adjusts her glasses, smiling as she steps up next to her brother. "I'm Pidge. And this is Hunk."

Hunk offers a small wave. "Hey. We're also from Piltover."

Allura nods, eyes sliding to where Keith and Lance stand. Lance steps away from him, dropping into a dramatic bow as his wing sweeps out to the side. "Name's Lance," He says, voice low and dripping in honey. "Of the Lhotlan tribe."

"Keith," He says, crossing his arms over his chest when the Alteans' eyes settle on him. "Of the Marmora tribe." Both of their gazes linger a moment longer than necessary.

Shiro takes another step forward, hands held out in a gesture of both peace and imploring. "We've come to speak with you about the spreading galra influence, and—"

He's cut off as Allura raises a hand, her expression suddenly gone hard and her gaze sharp. Her lips purse tight, and even Coran looks tenser than he had a moment ago. "We'll discuss your purpose for being here later. For now, you are our guests. The first ones we've had in a very long time, and only because one of our guardians have deemed you worthy."

Coran perks up a little then, tension easing out of him with a welcoming smile. "Come, let us show you around the monastery and the grounds. We'll have rooms made up for you, though I assume some of you would like to share?"

His gaze pointed lingers on Shiro and Matt before slipping to Keith and Lance. He feels heat crawl beneath his skin, but it's not unpleasant. Not when Coran chuckles. Not when Lance catches his eyes and winks before taking his hand, leading him after the Alteans and up the steps to the monastery.

 

* * *

 

The Altean monastery is larger than any of them anticipated. It stretches deep into the valley, carving through tunnels deep in the mountains and stretching up into the wide, woven trunks of ancient trees. The grounds are vast and imposing, timeless and pristine despite the age that clings to every surface. The whole valley carries an aura of ancient power, deep and calming and fearsome.

The Alteans themselves, however, are few and far between. There are many of them. Perhaps several hundred. But that's not nearly enough to fill out the space the valley provides. They dot and pocket the grounds like spirits themselves. They drift through their days, calm and peaceful, but there's so few of them compared to the vast space that they inhabit the monastery, but they don't populate it.

It's... sad.

A deep seeded melancholy that hangs in the air, unspoken, and latches onto Keith's heart.

It's clear that there was once more of them. Many more. Enough that they spilled out of the valley and into the villages beyond.

Now there are so few.

They walk through the towering trees and tend to their gardens, walking through the imposing halls of the monastery like ghosts.

It makes him ache for a people he's never known.

The alteans themselves are surprisingly kind and open. They stare at the visitors, but it's with more curiosity than it is wariness. They don't hesitate to speak with them. To answer questions. To show them around the valley. To let them taste food from their tables and goods from their trades.

They welcome their little ragtag group with open arms, and when Keith questions Coran about it, he merely smiles and says it's because the guardians have accepted them.

He's seen Blue several times since their arrival. She's often near Allura, but he sees her out in the valley as well. She likes to watch from afar, staring on with those vast and endless eyes, but she also likes to approach Lance. Rubs against him and accepts his attention before her form shifts into little more than a wisping globe of light that drifts away.

She's not the only spirit in the valley. Many inhabit the ancient domain. Flickering through the thin veil and thriving alongside the alteans. The alteans are used to their presence. Idly swatting away hovering creatures and letting established friends sit on their shoulders.

It's a strange sort of harmony that Keith never thought he'd see, and he finds himself in awe of it.

Still, there's something... off putting about the valley.

Time seems to slow to a halt. The sun drags lazily across the sky, followed by the moon across the stars. It's the same cycle he's always known, but it feels slower. Feels less consequential. Feels time like a thick haze against his skin.

It's peaceful, in it's own way. A lazy sort of catharsis. An atmosphere that's settled like a thick blanket over the valley, making it incredibly easy to settle into. It feels as if time barely moves here. Where things stand ancient and imposing, and the slip of days feels inconsequential in comparison.

It puts Keith on edge.

He's lived in a haze before, and he doesn't want to again.

While this valley may be peaceful, preserving ancient magic and the old ways, Ionia is out there _dying_.

The galra are spreading, wild magic is suffering, and they need to do something about it.

But every time they bring it up, the alteans brush the topic aside. They batter it away, letting it slip into the shadows while they bring a new subject into the light. They do it with smiles and a plea in their eyes. Allura is far more obvious about her distress. Her lips purse and her eyes grow hard. Coran looks at them with a smile that doesn't touch the sorrow in his eyes.

But every time they bring it up, bring up their mission and the galra and their purpose, Allura waves it away. Slips away herself.

Frustration simmers beneath his skin. An anxiousness and a restlessness beating in his chest like a drum. Demanding action.

Shiro tells him to be patient, but he's been patient for far too long.

Patience yields focus, but focus yields action.

And Keith feels the inaction crawl beneath this skin.

 

* * *

 

"This is _extraordinary_ ," Matt breathes, stepping up to a huge crystal. It hovers above a base that rises in claw-like tendrils. A hand of stone with the crystal hovering above the palm. It's pale blue glow fills the entire room, and mist comes off of it in wisps.

The room itself it open to the air. The woven wood of the walls opening in several places, creating large slashes that form floor to ceiling windows. The crystal Matt stands by is only one of many stationed around the cavernous room at the center of the monastery.

The whole room feels _alive_ with magic. It's a static in the air, buzzing across Keith's skin and zipping through his feathers. Every breath is saturated with it, and it makes his blood sing. His own magic hums, vibrating in harmony with the silent song.

While the others drift to particular crystals to inspect them, Keith wanders, taking it all in. The magic radiating from each crystal tastes different on his tongue.

Lance moves with him through the room. Not next to him, but in tandem. He weaves through the hovering crystals opposite Keith. Matching his steps in a way that's more inherent than purposeful. Until they weave closer and closer together. Drifting together. Caught up in an orbit neither of them can escape from.

Until Lance's feathers brush up against Keith's as he passes. His tail drifting lazily across Keith's thigh. Their fingers catch as they pass, a brief moment, a brief spark, before they move on.

"I've never felt so much magic in one place." Lance lifts a finger to a crystal, tapping a single sharp tail against the surface. It vibrates and rings, and Lance hums along with the note.

The whole isle is saturated in a thicker magic than Keith is used to, but this room is different. The crystals house magic, concentrated and pure. Having them all together is overwhelming. He can feel it press against him. Every time he goes near one, he can feel it nip playfully at his own magic.

He feels the spark drift over his feathers and the static on his skin.

This room feel _alive_ , and he suddenly understands why it's at the heart of the ancient tree that makes up the monastery proper.

"So you guys use crystal magic, too?" Hunk asks, squatting next to another crystal. He scratches his chin as his eyes roam over the claw-like base that seems to hold the crystals in place.

"Of course," Coran stands nearby. Back straight. One hand behind him. The other idly twirling his mustache as his eyes glint mischievously with pride. "You could say our people were the original founders of crystal magic." At the look the Piltover humans give him, he merely grins. "Where do you think your people got the idea from?"

Pidge circles a crystal twice her size. It spins slowly in its suspension, emitting a soft green glow. "But you guys don't only have crystal magic, right?"

"Certainly not. Crystals are merely for storing magic, but we are able to harness it ourselves. We don't need any of those contraptions I've seen of your Piltover technology."

"Like sorcerers?"

Coran scoffs. "Hardly. Our use of magic isn't so crude. We do not _take_ magic. We merely harness it."

Hunk looks up, glancing over to where Keith and Lance roam between the hovering crystals. "Like vastaya?"

Keith scoffs, and Lance snorts. But it's Coran who answers. "Similar, yes, but vastly different. Vastaya are born of magic. They have spirit blood. We are merely human. Or, rather, we were. Our extended use of magic may have... augmented us somewhat."

Pidge huffs a short breath and mutters, "You can say that again."

"Be that as it may, we don't have a core of magic inside us as vastaya do. Magic is part of them, and using it is as simple as breathing. We must create a bond with magic, a balance and a harmony. Ionian magic is wild, and as humans, we cannot bend it to our will. We merely... ask it to work with us."

Matt looks over, spark in his eyes. "Can anyone learn how to do that?"

That same madness is reflected in Coran's gaze. "In theory. It takes dedication, time, and patience."

"I have two of those things," Pidge says, turning to face them. "I'd love to give it a shot."

"Me, too!" Hunk straightens, immediately looking sheepish. "If... you don't mind? Is that rude?"

Coran, however, laughs. "Not at all, my boy. Once upon a time, we taught others much like yourselves."

He's already turning. Continuing to ramble about the process of teaching young acolytes. The others follow after him, asking questions and excitement bubbling up in their eyes. Keith watches them go, reaching out to run a nail along the hard surface of a crystal and feeling the magic shiver down his spine.

"Keith," Lance slides up behind him, a hand slipping beneath his wing to rest on his hip. He leans into Keith's side, lips close enough to his ear to make him shiver all over again. For very different reasons. "Look."

Keith tilts his head, following Lance's gaze to the far side of the room.

There, in the windows formed naturally between coiling trunks of wood, stands a spirit. They look much like Blue, but a little smaller. A little sharper. Body a translucent and deep red. The mist coiling off them looking more like flames. Eyes still dark, endless, and ageless.

As soon as Keith locks with those eyes, his breath catches.

"I think we're being watched," Lance says, voice low and lilting with amusement.

Then the spirit is gone. Turning and leaping, body shifting to a globe of light before drifting off and away from the monastery. There's something about it, though. A playfulness that nags at him. A drifting challenge on the wind that he can't quite shake. "I think they want us to chase them."

"I think they do." He can hear the coil of Lance's smirk in his voice. Glances over to see the sharp glint in his eyes.

He leans into Lance's hold. Tilts his chin so his lips brush against his ear. Lets his voice drop to a deep rumble. Lets the challenge shine through. "Think you can keep up with us."

A flash of those blue eyes. The pull of those dangerous lips. A glint of those sharp teeth.

The two of them take off. Sprinting across the room and darting through the open window. It doesn't take them long to find the spirit's taunting red glow. To chase it up the side of the monastery. Climbing the building as if it were merely just a tree.

Wings flared and feathers catching the setting sun.

Laughter on the wind, drifting across the valley.

Sparks when their fingers catch, pulling each other in for a brief but heavy kiss before continuing the chase.

The breath of magic in his lungs and the taste of Lance on his tongue.

 

* * *

 

When the restlessness becomes too much, Keith seeks out Lance. His presence and easy smile never fail to soothe Keith's frazzled nerves, and his daring thirst for adventure and endless curiosity distracts Keith from the heart of their inaction.

And sometimes, they squirrel themselves away into forgotten corners of the monastery and lose themselves in each other.

Keith had spent the better half of the morning with Shiro, training in one of the many sparring arenas the monastery has to offer. It's good for both of them. Keeps them in shape and keeps their own shadows at bay.

Sparring can only last so long, however, and afterwards, Shiro leaves to seek out Matt. Keith understands. He doesn't admit it aloud, but he, too, feels the underlying itch to be near his— well, his _Lance_.

It doesn't take him long to find him. His magic is drawn to Lance's, and with how connected everything is here, it doesn't take much effort to find the beacon of Lance's familiar presence.

He follows it through the halls and finds a telltale tuft of blue feathers bundled near a window on the third floor of the monastery.

And a swishing tuft of a tail.

He slinks closer, realizing that it's not just Lance, but also Pidge. They're both knelt on the floor, hovering over the edge of the window. They're whispering together, heads bowed close and giggling. Keith's ears twitch, but he can't make out the words. Lance's tail swishes back and forth, fluffy feathers at the tip swaying with the movement.

Without much thought, Keith reaches out, catching the tail mid-swing and letting the feathers slip through his fingers like silk.

Lance stiffens instantly, tail whipping away as he lets out a loud _squawk_ of surprise. He spins around just as Pidge's hand clamps down over his mouth, and the two of them sink automatically below the windowsill.

Keith stares at the two of them, one eyebrow raised and lips quirked in amusement. Lance's eyes are wide over Pidge's hand, and Pidge glares at Keith. But then Lance is pushing her hand away, and she lifts her eye, peeking back out the window.

"What're you two doing?"

Lance shushes him, surprise fading to excitement as he holds out his hands to Keith. "Come here, you've gotta see this."

Keith takes his hands, letting Lance pull him down to the ground beside him. Together they rise up on their knees, peeking out over the windowsill.

The window looks down over one of the many courtyards around the monastery. This one is a wide open space of flat stone. A natural dais that looks out over the valley below. It's lined on the edges by curling shrubs and jagged crystals sprouting from the earth. There are cracks across the stonework where flowers grow and coil.

At the center of the courtyard is a woman Keith has seen only from a distance. A tall woman, powerfully built. Dark hair cut short, bobbing just below her ears. She wears a simple tunic that fits her nicely with a sash around her waist and leggings that fit her toned thighs. She's barefoot, and her only embellishment are a fair of gold hoops dangling from her ears.

Hunk stands beside her, and the two of them have their back to the monastery, turned towards the view of the valley. After a few moments of watching them, Keith realizes that she's leading Hunk through motions.

It's the same sort of meditative motions he's seen a lot of the alteans do, both around the monastery and throughout the valley. Sometimes alone and sometimes in groups. In quiet places, and at all times of the day and night. Steps and arm movements. Specific hand gestures. Slow and steady. All with a calming breathing and soften with eyes closed. Movements that almost look like fighting stances or a dance, but slowed and as if moving through water.

Allura tried to run them through a few basic movements one of the first days they were here. She tried to encourage them to relax, to let their minds empty, and to simply feel the energy around them.

Shiro had gotten into it. The humans had actually put forth effort to do it right, encouraged by their magic lessons with Coran and trying to feel energy and magic as alteans do.

Keith hadn't taken to it. He had been restless and bored, and while the others had moved steadily through the motions, he had caught Lance's gaze. His own boredom quickly evaporated into mischievousness as he and Keith slipped away.

"Her name is Shay," PIdge says, pulling Keith back to the moment. There's an impish smile on her lips. "I heard she has her own private meditation sessions, but she's letting Hunk join her."

Keith's eyes roam over the woman once more, gaze lingering on her ears. "She's not altean."

"Nope," Lance sounds giddy, he shifts beside Keith in a restlessness that stems from excitement. Each wiggle of his body puts him closer to Keith until the two are pressed together. Slotting into sync in a way that's wholly natural and familiar. "She's actually from the Balmera clan, which is a group of humans who live on the isle south of here. She's like... a spiritual leader of sorts. It's tradition for them to come here to the monastery for training." He glances sideways, a glint in his eyes that matches his smile. "And she's taken a liking to our dear sweet Hunk."

Pidge snorts softly. "And Hunk has taken a liking to her. Seriously, he gets all doe-eyed whenever he talks about her."

Lance's tail slips beneath Keith's wing, wrapping around his waist and curling to the fluffy silk of his feathers rest in his lap. His head tilts, and he nuzzles his cheek into Keith's shoulder. "I think it's sweet."

"Think she'll ask Hunk to be her mieli?" Pidge says it lightheartedly. Teasingly. A playful edge. But Keith stiffens anyway, and he feels Lance do the same at his side. It takes her a moment to notice, but she's perceptive. "What?"

Lance relaxes first, and Keith feels the tension easing out of him as if it were his own. He shrugs, and Lance waves a hand vaguely in the air. " _Mieli_ is... more of a vastaya thing. Humans don't have mieli as we do."

"Why not?"

"Mieli, or Miela, or Miele... it means..." Lance's lips purse, face scrunching up as he struggles to find words.

Keith runs his fingers idly through the tail feathers in his lap, feeling Lance shiver against him. It's an intimate thing. Something Keith hadn't realized the true intimacy of until he had seen Lance's shy, hesitant smile and pink stained cheeks the first time Keith had combed his fingers through them. He's never asked him to stop, however, and Keith adores the way it makes Lance melt.

"Vastaya mate for life," Lance finally says, slow and deliberate, as if he's still finding words even as they come. "A Mieli is that. Our life partner. Our bond mate."

"So... like marriage."

Keith's lip curls, and Lance scoffs, waving her off with a roll of his eyes. "Please, what we have is far deeper than that."

Pidge huffs, and Keith glances over to see the frustration in her narrowed eyes. The crease in her brows as she tries to understand. Her lips purse with a puzzle that she's trying to solve. He's noticed it a lot with Pidge. Always seeing puzzles where there are none. "Then what does it _mean_ exactly, oh wise one?"

The tension eases from Lance as his gaze drifts out to the valley below. His hand shifts, fingers overlapping Keith's on the windowsill. He's quiet for a long moment, and when he speaks, his voice is gentle and hushed. "I.. haven't found a human word that can compare. The closest I've ever come is the sun of my life. Light of my stars. The music to my dance. But nothing will ever fully describe what mieli truly means."

Warmth spreads in his chest, bubbling through his veins. It leaves him feeling light and his head feeling fuzzy. His body burns where he touches Lance, cold and hot all at once. His fingers continue to comb through his tail feathers, treasuring the slip of silk on his fingertips.

Lance rests his cheek once more on Keith's shoulder, and he leans turns to bury his nose in Lance's hair as he whispers, "It's the spark of my magic. The beat of my heart. The wind beneath my wing."

He feels the surge of Lance's magic. Feels how his fingers tighten over Keith's own. Hears the gentle exhale as he turns his head just so.

There's a long pause before Pidge says, voice flat and dry, "That was super poetic, but also super gross."

"Thank you," Lance says, chuckling as he lifts his head to beam at her.

She rolls her eyes and shoves him, but it only pushes him further into Keith's embrace. Neither of them resist.

 

* * *

 

The tapestry is old and fraying at the edges. The once vibrant colors are muted and dim, though it's free from dust. It looks worn. The fibers have loosened with time, making the text even blurrier. He can see enough, however, to know that it's a language he doesn't understand. Something ancient and timeless. Something powerful.

The tapestry depicts a great battle, though it takes a while for him to make sense of it. The images revel in their chaos. It's busy, with constant action and details that draw his eye, but he supposes it's meant to be like that. He doesn't recognizes the beings fighting, but he thinks that, too, is intended. Mighty creatures, outlines vague even when the tapestry was new. Fighting and splitting the land. Creating lakes and rivers. The isles. The mountains and the valleys of Ionia.

He doesn't need to ask to know it's a creation story. A tale from before time was known. Before humans. Before vastaya. When titans crafted the earth and their battles made scars on the landscape.

He can feel the power radiating from it. His gaze roams the tapestry, feeling lost in the chaos. Feeling the dull pulse in the back of his mind, echoing through his bones. An echo through time. Of a time gone but not forgotten.

It's powerful, but it can no longer touch them. It can only cry from the void of the past and hope to be heard by the living.

And Keith hears.

And he stands in awe.

Lance is at his side, as he often is. They don't touch, but he's close enough that Keith can feel the heat from his body and the breeze from his shifting feathers. Close enough that his magic is an ever present pressure on his skin.

He says nothing, but he doesn't need to. The two of them stand there, lost in reverence, awe, and terror at a past they've never known but can still feel the echos of hidden and woven in the fabric of the world.

"What happened to this one?"

He's drawn out of his daze by Hunk's voice. He turns to find him and Pidge standing further down the hall, staring at a different tapestry.

The Hall of Ages, Coran had called it. A circular hall around the base floor of the monastery, filled with paintings and tapestries and statues that told the history of the land.

"It's all burnt and ripped." Pidge tilts her head, face scrunching up.

Lance moves first to join them, and Keith follows in his wake. The two of them step up beside the others, and sure enough, the tapestry is ripped in half, frayed edges singed and burnt. The remaining half shows age, but despite it's smoldered edges, it still remains clear and crisp. It depicts a familiar symbol that Keith has seen frequently. The one of the altean monastery. Behind the symbol is an artful depiction of the mountains and valleys and spirits that surround the monastery.

It's clear that right before the smoldered edge, the image begins to change.

They all wait for Coran to explain, as he tends to eagerly do whenever any of them show remote confusion. It leaves the impression that he's fond of teaching, and that he hasn't gotten to do it in a long, long time.

Now, however, he remains silent.

"Coran?" Hunk turns, and it causes a chain reaction in the rest of them.

They find the older altean standing off to the side. His gaze is fixed on the tapestry, but his brows are furrowed. Lips pursed. There's a distance in his gaze and shadows that stretch in the hollows of his features. At the sound of his name, however, he blinks, eyes roaming over the four of them before drifting back to the tapestry.

"Sorry, my boy, I was simply... lost in a memory."

"What happened to this one?"

A deep exhale leaves his lips. His shoulders slump with it. There's a wistfulness in his gaze, but a melancholy in his voice. "We... try our best to remain impartial to events of the past. No matter how painful they are, it is important to remember them. However... we are only human, and despite our teachings, sometimes our anger can be... overwhelming."

Understanding settles over them. Slowly. One by one. Keith can feel the implications sink into them. Settling in their minds like stones sinking into a still pond.

"So... you guys did this." Hunk doesn't frame it as a question.

Coran merely nods. "We did. Though it was nearly a millennia ago."

"What was on the other side of the tapestry?" Pidge asks, reaching out to run her hands delicately over the singled fibers.

There's a pause, and then the answer comes on the tail of a sigh. "The symbol of the galra."

Keith's head snaps to the side, eyes widening before narrowing on the altean. He can hear Lance's sharp inhale at his side and the rustle of his feathers. He sees Pidge tense in his peripheral vision.

The silence that stretches is tense and thick. Straining and suffocating.

Coran's eyes remain on the tapestry, lingering on the ghost of the missing half. There's a storm brewing behind his eyes. It's told in the tension and shadows of his expression. An anger, long since cooled into acceptance. A longing.

When he speaks, his voice is careful. Informative. A weak attempt to hide the emotion that he clearly feels. It also sounds like an echo of defeat. "The galra were not always as they are now. Once, long ago, when people were still new to Ionia and we were carving out our place in a land left by titans and populated by spirits, the galra were one of us."

He turns and walks further down the hall, stopping at a painting across the hall. They shuffle after him, gazing up at the depiction of two groups of men and women. They're imposing but serene. Keith recognizes the alteans by the ceremonial garb, but they lack the marks under their eyes and the pointed ears. They're going through the traditional meditative motions with men and women dressed in similar clothes but of darker color.

"Our people were once one. We founded the Order of Paladins together. We swore ourselves to keep balance in Ionia. To keep harmony with the spirits and bridge the gap between magic and humans. Our aim was to make peace in this land we called home. To teach others how to live with it rather than ravish it. Through our traditions, we opened ourselves up to the spirits. We learned how to direct the flow of magic in ways to benefit everyone. We wove the first trees and spoke to the earth to create shelters. Humans spread and built their villages. The vastaya spread and settled their tribes. And we were self proclaimed guardians of Ionia."

Coran takes a step back, half turning his body as his gaze moves to the painting directly across the hall. They all turn to follow, and Keith's eyes settle on a map of Ionia. Two major places are marked. One on the north eastern isle with the familiar altean symbol. The other to the north west, marked with a symbol he's only seen emblazoned on galra armor.

"When our order became vast, we split into two. Half of us settled the Altean Monastery here. The other half settled the Daibazaal Monastery to the north west. While our people grew differently, formed our own cultures and our own physical characteristics from exposure to magic, we still remained in the same order. Our purpose was the same, and our principals were the same." He heaves a heavy sigh, one full of burden. "Until they weren't."

"The leader of our sister monastery became... corrupted. We're still not sure how. He became obsessed with shadow magic. A remnant from the Great Void Wars so long ago. Shadow magic is dangerous. It corrupts and consumes. It thrives off of absorbing other magics. And Ionia is rich with wild magic.

"We were teachers. We traditionally traveled Ionia and taught the humans with promise and patience how to use magic. We taught them the old ways. We taught them respect and understanding for the land. We helped them, and Ionia was in balance and peace. We didn't notice the Daibazaal Monastery had stopped sending out teachers. We noticed they had started to live in solitude, but we didn't realize how terrible the situation had become. How they were feeding on and learning shadow magic.

"By the time we realized how far they had fallen, it was too late to save them."

"Why didn't you try to stop them?" Keith asks, and doesn't realize how sharp his words are until they leave his lips.

He doesn't realize his fingers have curled into fists until he feels Lance's fingers reach out, running along his knuckles and prying his hand open to slip his into the space. "Keith..."

Some of his tension eases, but he keeps his eyes narrowed on Coran. "Once you realized what they were doing, that they were corrupted, why didn't you stop them?"

Coran's eyes remain on the painting, though his gaze is far, far away. His frown is haggard. His voice is quiet and hangs with a bone deep weariness. "It's... not that simple, my boy."

"Why not?"

"Because our order is pledged to balance and peace."

They all turn at Allura's voice, words sharp but not loud. She walks down the corridor toward them with even steps, matching the calm of her words. But her eyes don't hold the same distant sorrow as Coran's. There's a fury there. An icy storm behind that crystalline gaze.

Her eyes are narrowed on Keith's, meeting his anger with her own simmering rage. But he gets the distinct impression that it's not focused on _him_. He doesn't feel her fury targeting him. Rather surrounding them and adding to his own.

"For as long as our ancestral memory goes, we've been pledged to balance. We teach and guide, but we've sworn ourselves to be impartial to the _superficial_ struggles of the world." There's a bite to her words. A venom on her tongue. Something that rolls and coils, restless beneath her even voice and measured calm. "Our ancestors swore to remain apart from the squabbles of Ionia and focus wholly on keeping spiritual balance. Those are our teachings, and those are the ones that bind us. We are taught that evil requires no action. That we shouldn't lower ourselves to that level to respond. That evil will reap the karma of its own actions."

She pauses in front of the burnt tapestry, gaze finally leaving Keith's as she turns her head. Her eyes narrow on the singed edges.

"So when the Daibazaal Monastery betrayed our order, declared themselves new and better and took the name _galra_ , we cut them off but stood aside. Our ancestors believed they would cause their own downfall, in time. Clearly that has not been the case. The spirits have abandoned them, and the spirit gates have closed near their monastery, but still they spread. The feast on wild magic. They corrupt more and more humans. They _hunted_ us, our wandering teachers, until we had to pull back into his valley and hide ourselves. We cut ourselves off from the world and believed that in time, it would work itself out."

"Allura..." There's an emotion in Coran's voice that Keith cannot name. Something pained. Something placating. Something filled with far too much for him to understand.

She sighs, turning back to them. Her eyes shift between Pidge and Hunk, and the shadows leave her expression long enough to allow a genuine smile. Small though it may be. "The crystal keepers are looking for you two. They think they've had a break through with your Piltover technology."

The two of them perk up at that, letting out an excited ramble as they follow Allura back down the hall. The tension in her shoulders eases, and her smile widens as they speak of crystals.

Keith watches them go, Lance's hand in his. When he looks back, Lance's eyes are on the painting of the order's founders. His eyes are narrowed, but his thoughts are far, far away. Keith squeezes his hand, and Lance's eyes drift to his. There's a quiet comfort in his small smile. In the way his tail shifts to wrap playfully around Keith's ankle.

Then Coran clears his throat, and they turn to him. There's an apology in his smile but a far more cheerful light in his eyes as he gestures over his shoulder with a thumb. "There are some tapestries and paintings of vastaya origin down that way. I believe one is meant to be a song, but we've never been able to read it nor understand the notation."

Lance instantly brightens at that, back going straight and grin spreading across his lips. "Lead the way, Coran, my man."

He tugs Keith along, and Keith chuckles at the eager bounce in his step. He lets the shadows fade away in the wake of Lance's excitement and Coran's warm companionship.

 

* * *

 

The ice is cold beneath the soles of his feet. Despite his talons scratching the surface with every step, it remains glassy and unblemished. His nails slide easily off of it. Smooth and clear, the glass lake is a perfect mirror. It reflects the sky above and the patchwork clouds the drift lazily over the isle.

It reflects him. Proud vastaya with a stern face. The red marks on his cheeks. Dark eyes. Fair skin. Hair like the night. Feathers like a pink and purple fire.

It reflects Lance. Proud vastaya with an open face. The blue marks on his cheeks and chin. Blue eyes. Sun kissed skin. Hair like chestnuts. Feathers the fading colors of a sky into night.

Despite being unmarked and smooth as glass, the ice is dark. Nothing shines from beneath. No indication that it ever was water or that any remains below. The breeze is cool, but the sun above is warm. The ice below them doesn't sweat. The only indication that it's ice at all is the chill seeping through his feet with every step.

Mist curls off of it, dissipating into the day. Hanging low and swirling around their ankles.

From the surface of the glass lake sprout the blades of giants. Swords of no design he's familiar with, rising three times his own height. Stuck and fixed into the ice, points down. They sprout at all angles. Fallen and forgotten. Their metal handles untouched by age. Tilts swirling in design. Ancient ribbons, torn and tattered, swaying in the wind.

On the far side of the lake, they can see the fallen battle masks of titans. Impossibly large. Half sunken into the ice. Polished white, though it's impossible to tell if that was from design or from sun wear and age. Colorful moss grows through the cracks of them, through the twisted faces and expressions they portray. Flowers blossom in the cracks of eyes and teeth.

A battlefield, though a battle that's long since faded into mystery. Not even the alteans know what transpired here, but they preserve it nonetheless. They leave places like this be, as a reminder that things came before their own era. Things and civilizations that left their marks on the world. There are many of them around Ionia, though the only ones that remain are hidden in pockets of untouched land.

It's a powerful place. It makes him feel small. Though that's not necessarily a bad thing. It reminds him that even if they fail, the world will keep moving on. No matter how powerful they get, one day the galra will fade.

He only hopes his own people don't fade as well.

Lance's hand slips into his, easy and familiar. Keith slides their fingers together, finding comfort in the connection. In the spark and twining of their magic where their palms touch.

Without a word, Lance leads him to one of the swords rising into the sky. He stops next to it, turning to Keith and taking his other hand. He smiles, lopsided and kind. His eyes glint with familiar mischief. A familiar joy. A familiar warmth.

He leans forward, pressing his forehead to Keith's and nuzzling hard enough that it pushes Keith back, pulling a soft, breathy chuckle from his lips. Lance hums, tilting his head to brush the tip of his nose along Keith's. Across his cheek and trailing the red mark there.

He presses soft lips to his cheekbone, and Keith's eyes flutter closed.

Lance's hand tighten around his, and he steps closer. When he bends his knees, crouching down and digging his feet in, Keith follows his movement. Lulled along with the stream of his momentum. He opens his eyes to find Lance watching him, a smile touching his lips.

His wing flares out behind him, lifting up, feathers fluffed and spread. Suspended on an invisible breeze.

Then all at once he straightens his legs. He leaps into the air. His wing pushes down, and Keith can feel the _push_ and flare of magic propelling them upward. Keith jumps with him, and lets Lance's grip on his hands drag him up into the air.

Higher.

Higher.

Higher.

Until their momentum slows. Until gravity catches them and gently tugs them back down. But their decent is slow. Wings spread wide and magic crackling along their feathers to resist the pull. To make their fall graceful and gentle.

Lance directs the fall. Tugs Keith closer until they land on the hilt of the massive sword on light feet.

It's there they sit. Legs dangling off the hilt. Lance leaning against the handle with an arm around Keith's waist and his wing overlapping his. His tail swinging idly below them. Keith leans into his side.

They say nothing as they watch the sunset. As fire burns away the day and leaves the coolness of night in its wake. Content in silence. Content in casual touches and each other's nearness. Letting the magic of ancients swirl around them. Basking in the echos and remnants of forgotten history.

The blanket of the night sky is reflected in the glass lake, surrounding them by a sea of stars above and below. Suspending them, together, a bubble of solitude wrapped up in the universe.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _Humans think that to believe in something, you have to be serious about it. That's their problem_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

When they're summoned to the grand meeting chamber, Keith isn't sure what to expect. Only he, Shiro, and Lance are called, and so they think little of it. The humans merely shrug and shoo them away, content to tinker and toy with the breakthroughs they're having on their technology. The three of them are already lost to their whispers and enthusiasm before the vastaya have even left the room.

They follow Coran through the halls, climbing the long, spiraling stairs to the seventh floor. He hasn't spent much time this high up in the monastery. It's a smaller floor, and it seems to house rooms for more official and private use. He's climbed outside of it, though. Him and Lance have scaled and scampered over the whole ancient tree that weaves the foundations of the building.

As soon as the large, ornate double doors open, it's clear that this is no ordinary meeting.

The room is a perfect circle, half of which is open to the air and lined with the twisting natural column of woven wood. A crisp breeze rolls through it, combing through Keith's feathers and ruffling his hair. It's a biting wind from the north, edge eased only somewhat by the sun. Goosebumps rise on his skin as he takes in the room.

An ornate mosaic of a blooming flower makes up the floor, and a depiction of the heavens fills the rising dome ceiling. The floor of the circular room moves down in steps, creating a smaller circular space sunken at the center.

Allura sits there. Atop a thick and plush looking cushion. Legs crossed and hands resting easily on her knees. Back straight and eyes closed. Her white flows like snowfall down her back, and her silken robes have a more ceremonial quality to them than her usual garb.

Three more cushions sit in front of her in a semi-circle, unoccupied.

Dozens of alteans sit on the layers of circular steps rising from the central divot. Making them a clear audience of what transpires at the circle while still being removed from it.

They all sit similarly. Legs crossed. Backs straight, but body otherwise relaxed. Their postures are easy, expressions calm, but there's a tension in the room that ruffles Keith's feathers and makes his hair stand on end.

Coran leads them to the center, down the wide steps and through the crowd of alteans. He gestures to the unoccupied cushions with a slight bow, and sinks to the floor to the side and a little behind Allura.

Sharing a glance, seeing the same confused trepidation in Shiro and Lance, the three of them take their places on the seats offered.

Keith shifts until he's somewhat comfortable, but he still feels fidgety long after Shiro and Lance have settled.

It's then that Allura opens her eyes. They're sharp and bright, mirroring the crystal blue sky over the valley behind her. "It is time we heard why you are here."

Keith feels his lips purse into a small frown, irritation flitting beneath his skin. But it's Lance who speaks first. "What about the others?"

The shake of Allura's head is slight. "They are good people, but they are not from here. We want to hear of the state of Ionia from Ionians."

Keith can't help the soft, sharp exhale. Nor can he helped the murmured, "You _want_ to hear it now?"

Allura's gaze is sharp, and he meets it steadily. He sees that icy rage again. The swirling clouds of a snowstorm. The howling of an oncoming wind. But once more, he doesn't feel it directed at him. He feels enveloped by the storm, but not battered by it.

Her gaze leaves him, drifting lazily but pointedly around their audience. "You must understand, we have been taught patience and peace for so long that inaction has sunken in its roots deep. It's not that we _want_ to hear how our world is falling apart, but that we _need_ to."

"Peace isn't something that can be waited for." Keith feels a heat in him rising. His jaw clenches, and his fingers curl into his knees, nails biting through cloth to his flesh. "It is something that the galra are preying on, and it becomes weaker and weaker. It won't return until we cleanse the infection."

He feels a touch at his clenched fist. A large, familiar hand. Fingers wide and calloused but gentle as they ease Keith's tension. As they wrap around him and squeeze. Grounding and soothing. He glances to the side, but Shiro's eyes are on Allura. There's a hard glint in his gaze. A purse to his lips and a pinch to his brow.

"Ionia is dying," He says. Sorrowful but resolute. Matter-of-fact despite the deep melancholy that hedges his words.

Allura's shoulders slump, her posture slackening as a weight settles onto her features. "We know," She says softly. "It's been dying for some time."

"And you haven't done anything—" Keith's sharp words are cut off by a squeeze at his hand.

"The galra do nothing but take, and the land is bleeding dry. We've— the Marmora tribe— we've been fighting back for a long, long time. But we are scattered, and our resources are thin. We do what we can, but it's barely staunching the wound, let along healing it. Our numbers can't compete with their rising influence."

Keith can hear the tension in his voice. The desire to remain calm and informative when the simmering rage is threatening to peek through. The bite of his own torment leaking into his words.

He flips his hand around, taking Shiro's fully in his and squeezing. Grounding him as he does for Keith. He sees the rigid rise of his shoulders relax. Just slightly, but it's enough.

"The humans have formed their own rebellion," He continues. "The galra have started pushing into their lands and destroying their homes, and they're ready to fight back. But while their numbers are growing, they're still small. Still spread thin. With so little resources. We're fighting a scattered battle, and we need to unite our efforts if we want to have any chance to take down the galra."

Allura's lips purse. A tension in her brows, but understanding and sorrow in her eyes. "I have long since thought that we've been idle for too long." A murmur starts up around the room, but she holds up a hand to silence them. "We are here to listen. We—" She glances around, sharp eyes flickering across the audience. "Need to know the state of our nation. Please, tell us what you've seen. What you've experienced."

And so they do.

Shiro tells them of their village being destroyed all those years ago. He tells them of the Blade's fight. He tells them of his time in captivity. His words are stilted and voice tight, but he gets through it. He tells them what he can remember. The things they did to him. The things they made him do.

When he's run out of things to say, exhaustion hanging heavy on his shoulders and eyes far too distant, Keith picks up the tale. He tells them what he's seen in his travels. The temples he's seen corrupted and had to cleanse. The villages he's seen destroyed. He tells them of the wreckage and spread of shadow magic. He tells them of the ley lines and the choking of wild magic.

If wild magic dies, so do the vastaya. So will Ionia.

Lance's hand slips into his other one. Familiar slender fingers weaving between his own. Thumb idly running over his knuckles as he speaks. The soothing and cooling touch of Lance's magic, easing his heat.

When he's run out of words, Lance is there to pick it up.

He tells them of the humans. He tells them of his own travels. He tells them how those in the southern and western parts of Ionia are ignorant of the threat. They live thinking it won't touch them. They ignore the rising danger.

It's with sorrow and voice like a whisper that he tells them how humans have forgotten the old ways. How none of them know how to speak with magic anymore. How none of them remember how to leave in harmony with the land. How none of them remember the vastaya songs. How they see their kind as a threat and an oddity.

Keith can see the pain in Allura's eyes. He can hear the shocked murmurs of the audience. Lance is a story teller, and where Keith and Shiro had passion and fury, Lance weaves a tale of sorrow thick enough to swell their throats and bring tears to their eyes.

It's not just magic that's dying. It's not just the land and the ley lines and the vastaya.

It's the humans, too.

The humans that the alteans once guarded. Once protected. Once looked after and guided. Without that guiding hand, the humans have fallen so far. They've forgotten what it means to be an Ionian. They've forgotten how to hear the music. They've taken the magic of the land for granted.

And that, perhaps, is the biggest blow to the alteans.

The realization that their solitude has forsaken the very people they were meant to guide and teach and protect.

The vastaya have suffered the most at the galra's hands, but Lance makes them realize, without accusation and without blame, that the humans have suffered at the hands of the alteans.

"We need to rise together," Shiro says when Lance's voice fades away. "We need to band together and unite Ionia. The galra are not just a vastaya problem. They're Ionia's problem."

Allura's eyes are glassy and red rimmed . Drying streaks of tears run down her cheeks. Still, she holds her head high. Beautiful and elegant in her sorrow. "I believe... it is time that we stop hiding and take action against the galra."

The reaction is instant. The murmur rises to a clamor. Shouts of outrage mingling with shouts of agreement. Altean voices clashing and combatting to be heard. The circle around them is restless. Moving like a churning sea. Keith keeps his eyes on Allura, hands holding Lance's and Shiro's.

Her gaze never leaves them, but she raises a hand. " _Silence_." Her voice remains gentle and even, but there's a steeliness that carries. The din of conversation calms, but there's a simmering rumble waiting to swell once more. She waits until she has all eyes before continuing. "The galra betrayed our order millennia ago, and when they tried to overtake us, we locked ourselves away like cowards. As much as we are loath to admit it, time moves forward. And with each passing day, the galra, _our_ mistake, an evil we never bothered to stop, grows stronger. If we continue to wait, there may not be a nation left to protect. Our ancestors taught us that balance requires inaction. Today we have learned that inaction breeds imbalance."

She stands, rising to her full height. Lifting her chin and gazing around the room. She makes eye contact with each altean on the council, eyes hard as ice. But even in her fury, her voice softens. "We cannot let them ruin what our ancestors spent their lives building. Shiro is right. If we want peace, if we want to preserve the old ways, we need to act. We are shriveling and dying, just as the vastaya are. Just as wild magic is. Just as Ionia is. We must all work together and fight back against extinction."

She glances back to Coran as he stands, tall and firm at her side. For a moment, she looks pleading. Coran only smiles. A gentle smile that lifts his cheeks and softens his eyes. He nods, barely perceptible.

She turns back to them, locking eyes with Lance, then Keith, then Shiro.

"If we are to do this, we need to unite. We need allies, and we need to work together. Can you and your companions contact the Blade and the human rebellion? We can gather our forces here and set up a base of operations. We have plenty of space in the valley, and it's protected from the galra."

Shiro's grin is wide, showing a glint of his fangs. "We can do that."

The whispers rise again. Murmurs of agreement and dissent. It's clear not all of the alteans agree with breaking tradition, but it's also clear that some have been moved by their tales. Perhaps some have been restless in their long years of timeless inaction.

He watches Allura interact with them all. As she answers questions and refutes protests. He watches her do it with a newfound spark in her eyes. Ice melting into something akin to flames. A smile on her lips that looked like a touch of madness.

He knows that look.

He knows the feeling all too well.

The promise of action. Of change. Of fighting back when your back is to a corner. The heat and adrenaline of moving forward.

It's a wildfire, and it catches and spreads. One altean after another, until soon enough, the entire valley is alive with a spark he dares to call hope.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _If you aren't a little frightened, you aren’t alive_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

Lance is beautiful in the moonlight.

Keith returns from the monastery baths after a meeting with Shiro to plan how to the contact the Blade to find Lance waiting for him. He's on the bed in the guest room the alteans provided for them. He lays atop the blankets, sprawled out leisurely and grandly, almost regal in his confidence. His wing stretched out under him, beside him, feathers relaxed and spread. His tail curls, tip of it lazily flicking as he's lost in thought.

His body is bare, clothes lying forgotten on the floor.

Keith sees the way his tail pauses. The way his ears twitch. And he knows that Lance is aware of his presence. A silent shadow as he hovers just inside their room, taking in the sight of him.

He keeps his head tilted to the side, eyes on the window that takes up an entire length of one wall. The moonlight falls through, gently lighting up his visage. It clings to the angles and planes of his face, making his blue marks and eyes dark. It drifts across the messy curls of his hair. It glitters off his feathers like it might the ocean. It sets his body alight, accenting every divot and line and curve, turning his warm skin to smooth and perfect marble.

He lies there, picturesque and magical, completely at ease and comfortable in his own skin.

But Keith knows better.

He knows Lance has put himself on display for _him_.

He moves from the door, stepping further into the room on silent and slow steps. Each one measured. Feeling the shift of his weight throughout his body. Feeling the predatory grace.

Lance's eyes shift from the window, head turning as his gaze catches on Keith. Eyes lidded and dark and hungry. His eyes linger on the way Keith moves, on the way he approaches, and something shivers through him. His body shifts every so slightly, ever so gently. An arch of his back and a roll of his hips.

Keith stops at the foot of the bed, letting his fingers gently toy with the silken robe he'd wrapped around himself after his bath. Lets it open slowly. Lets it slide off his shoulders and slip down his arms. Watches Lance as his eyes track every inch of skin as it's revealed. Lets the robe pool at his feet.

Watches Lance lick his lips, eyes dark and lidded.

Watches his eyes roam Keith's body, cloaked in moonlight and shadows.

He presses a knee to the bed, feeling the soft mattress give way. It's the softest bed he's ever slept on. The most luxurious room he's ever been given. A bed that sunk with his weight and blankets of feathered down. It had been strange at first, but he'd come to like it. Likes being wrapped up in a plush nest with Lance's firm, warm body pressed into him.

He leans forward, falling to his hands as he crawls up the bed. Each movement measured and slow. Feeling his wing fall down his back and his feathers brush bare skin. Feeling his muscles ripple and stretch with each movement. Feeling a shiver run down his spine as Lance watches him.

Lance's body shifts as he crawls closer. Minute movements that settle himself beneath him as Keith comes to straddle his hips. Thighs bracketing the smooth, firm legs beneath him. The dark, sharp hips and narrow waist.

He settles his weight down, a soft gasp escaping his lips as they brush together. As weight provides friction. As the warmth of their bodies comes together.

Lance's body shifts again. A little roll. So subtle that it feels habitual. Instinctual. Keith finds his own body answering in kind. Hips rolling. Pressing into Lance until he hears the soft inhale and gentle hiss leave his lips.

His hands rest on Lance's waist. Flitting across his stomach, light caresses with a gentle drag of nails. He feels Lance's muscles twitch beneath him. Feels out the definition of his stomach. His chest. Plays with the line of hair from his navel, diving down into dark curls.

Lance's hands find his thighs, wide palms and slender fingers smoothing over pale skin. Moving up to his hips before trailing back down again. Keith shivers, body rolling again, finding a steady momentum that feels languid and torturous.

"I wish I could go with you," Lance says, voice low and hoarse, gravelly in his need and breathless in his anticipation.

Keith hums, moving his hands up to Lance's chest. He leans down, running his nose along his collarbones, dragging his lips along his skin. Warm and salty and sweet. The smell of _Lance_ fills him, familiar and fresh and comforting. "I know," He breathes, nudging his face into the crook of Lance's neck and pressing a kiss to the base of his ear.

He knows Lance wants to come with him, and he wants it as well. The thought of separation is one that he hadn't realized would be so excruciating. It makes his chest tight and his lungs ache. Makes a nervous anxiety shudder through him.

But he knows it's for the best.

He knows they have to.

They need to get word out to allies as quickly as possible. Need to start forming their coalition as efficiently as they can. He won't even be traveling with Shiro. They'll go their own ways and leave messages at several Blade bases. They'll cover more ground that way.

And Lance is needed elsewhere. He'll be traveling to different vastaya villages nearby. He'll spread the word and the tale and encourage others to rise up. To meet them in altean lands to fight back.

Lance will rally their people while he and Shiro gather the shadows. Meanwhile Matt and Pidge will spread news to the rebellion while Hunk stays at the monastery to continue their work.

Splitting up is a necessity, and they both know that. They've acknowledged it. But that doesn't make it any easier to bear. Doesn't stop the desire to remain close from forming thick in their hearts and choking their lungs.

Lance's hand finds its way into Keith's hair, fingers carding through and digging deep into the strands, cradling the back of his head. His other hand slides across his skin, arm wrapping tight around him. For a moment, the rolls of his hips still.

"Promise you'll come back to me." It's soft. Far too open and far too vulnerable. Voice smooth, but cracking on the edges.

Keith lifts his head, gazing down at the man below him. Beautiful in the moonlight. Lips pressed thinly. Brows pinched. Lines forming around his dark, lidded eyes as he gazes up at Keith.

He looks raw. Exposed. Heartbroken and worried. Scared.

It's rare that Keith sees him like this. Hears him like this. Rare that the easy confidence melts away and leaves his core open and shaking. Rare that he sees Lance as anything but in control.

He feels his heart break.

He feels it knit back together with a warmth and a fondness that makes it stronger than ever before.

His hands move to cup Lance's cheeks. Thumbs brushing gently over the blue marks on his cheeks. Lance leans into the touch, shuddering as his eyes flutter closed. He feels the body beneath him quake as the shaking breath leaves his lips.

Keith leans down, pressing his forehead to Lance's. Blocking out everything but the breath between them. Lets his magic swirl and flare and rise until he knows his eyes are glowing. He can feel Lance's magic respond in kind. Sparking and static across their bare skin. Playfully intertwining where they touch and arcing across the space between them.

When Lance opens his eyes again, his blue irises are aglow.

"I promise I will come back to you," Keith whispers, lips catching on Lance's. Voice barely above a low rumble but firm. Words sharp. Sincere and forceful.

This close, he can't see Lance's smile, but he can feel it quirk against his lips. Can taste his words on his tongue. "If you don't, I'll have to come find you." HIs hold on Keith tightens. Just barely. Just enough. "I'll always find you."

Keith's heart swells. His chest feels full. His lungs ache and his lips quiver with all the things he wants to say. But he doesn't know if it's too soon. He doesn't know if it's the right time. He can't get the words to form on his tongue.

So he captures Lance's lips instead. Tries to direct everything into that heated kiss. Hungry and tender all at once. Soft and sincere, biting and demanding. Need. Want. Desire. Adoration. Affection. Everything. He feels everything all at once.

He tastes the same on Lance's tongue. Feels the heat of it in his kiss. Feels the desperation in the way he grips Keith, and feels the ache in the way his body rolls against him.

Keith moves with him. Lets Lance guide him. Sets a pace that's slow and torturous. Watches and listens as the beautiful vastaya below him unravels. Lets himself unravel above him. Lets their breaths become quicker, shallower. Bodies overheated and restless. Unable to stop. Unwilling to stop.

Loses himself in moonlight, shadows, and _Lance_.

Lets Lance fill him, body, heart, mind, and spirit. Until he's too full. Until it's too much. Until he's fit to burst and Lance's touch tips him over the edge.

Falls from his height with a quivering body and a hazy mind. Spirit alight and soothed by Lance's magic. Heart aching and full. Exchanging soft kisses and gentle touches as the moonlight blankets them. Turns them to stone. And stretches the night into an eternity.

 

* * *

 

Minutes drag into hours. Hours stretch into days. Days build into weeks.

The bite of the northern air aches in his lungs. His legs burn, and his feet are sore. The sun is a welcome warmth on his wing, soaking into his clothes and sticking with him as day bleeds into night.

He pushes himself. Harder and faster than ever before. Slowing means he has time to think. Thinking means being wrapped up in his own thoughts, his own memories, and acknowledging his own loneliness. Moving quickly means he only has to focus on the next step, the next path, the next obstacle. Moving quickly means returning quicker.

It means reunion.

For centuries he traveled on his own. Once, he was convinced he preferred it. He had reveled in the fast pace. He had delighted in pushing the most distance from every day. He enjoyed making decisions that affected no one but himself.

He hadn't realized how much has changed until he's alone again.

How much he misses Matt and Pidge's incessant chatter. How much he misses Hunk's complaints and excellent cooking. How much he misses Shiro's soft chuckle and steady voice telling them to rest.

How much he misses Lance.

His voice. His presence. His songs. His laughter. His touch.

Keith feels the loneliness like he never has before. It's a weighty presence, hanging off of him and pressing in on his heart. The numbness had protected him before. Now he knows what it's like to _feel_ , and now he knows what it's like to hurt at the absence of those he loves.

He's used to his chest being so full. And now with it empty, he feels the weight of the days press in on him, threatening to collapse his ribs and pierce his heart.

But there's a strength in his loneliness.

A fire in the promise of reunion.

The knowledge that he'll see them again, that all of this is only temporary, is a balm that gets him through the day. It's a peace that settles over him and makes the pain bearable.

It keeps him going. Forward. Ever forward. One step. Then another. One destination. Then another.

He and Shiro parted ways. Both traveling westward into Ionia. Keith had taken to the north. The lands here are far more galra infested, and he'll do what he can to keep Shiro far away from that. He's quick and silent, and he knows he can avoid detection if he chooses to. Shiro moves to the south. It's safer this way, And though Shiro had protested, Keith could see the relief in his eyes.

He had the Blade bases memorized. Nestled in a mental map he had learned long ago and then destroyed to keep anyone else from finding it. As they all do. His course is a carefully plotted route that will take him by several before looping back around and stopping by several more.

Some of them he's been to before, and those are easier to find. Others he only knows the general location of and has to take the time to carefully scavenge the landscape to find them.

He leaves his message. He checks the messages left by other Blade members. He takes the supplies he needs. And he moves on.

Ever onward.

Each step forward is another step back toward the monastery.

Back to Lance.

He keeps a brisk pace. One his body protests but can certainly handle. It's brutal. He feels the ache when he lies down to sleep. But he doesn't mind. The exhaustion helps him rest without thinking too much. Without wallowing.

Days bleed into nights. Nights bleed into days.

He pushes himself forward with each aching step.

He sleeps with his nose buried in the small cluster of Lance's feathers attached to his cloak.

Every day without him steels his resolve to return as quickly as he's able.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _Without wild magic, we have no children, we have no future_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

There are galra milling about, and it takes every ounce of self control he has to keep from engaging them.

He perches high in a twisting tree, feathers blending into the muted purple of the leaves, lost in the shadows of dusk as he perches on the white wood of a thick branch. The galra mill about below. He's waited, and he's observed, and there's a part of him that thinks both Shiro and Lance would be proud at his patience and restraint.

There are at least ten of them. No druids, as far as he can tell, but strong foot soldiers. None that should be taken lightly.

He toys with the thought of taking them out. Of slinking through the shadows and removing them one by one. Of letting their blood soak the earth and give back the magic they stole to make them what they are.

But he can hear Lance's voice in his head telling him to wait. He can practically feel his hand on his arm to hold him back. He can nearly feel his magic, soothing and calming, but strong and daring.

He knows there's a good chance he can take them all out with patience and precision.

He also knows there's a slight chance they'll overpower him. That he'll misstep. That he'll fail.

He's fought the galra for so long. He's wandered and searched and fought nearly every galra that he's come across. He's carved into their numbers as best he can by never turning his cheek. The urge to do so again is strong. It's engrained. A whisper from his past, from the shadow of himself, tells him that any galra he can kill is a step in the right direction.

But he doesn't act.

He stays where he is.

He knows none of his friends would want him to risk it. He knows Lance wouldn't want him to. As much as he'd like to, as confident as he is that he could, he knows that it isn't his mission. His mission right now is clear cut and simple: leave messages for the Blade and return to the monastery.

No fights.

No distractions.

What stops him, however, is the memory of what happened last time he was rash and on his own. When he had been captured. When he had thought he'd never see Lance again. When Lance had to rescue him.

Tagging onto the tail end of that thought is the memory of Lance the night before they left. The worry etched into his features and highlighted by moonlight.

He'll be damned if he makes Lance's fears come true.

So he doesn't engage. He watches, and he waits. He tracks their movements and attempts to listen to their conversations. And when there's nothing directly around to see, he lets himself imagine what it would be like to fall from his skyward perch with Lance at his side, tearing through the galra together. A laugh on his lips and feathers between his fingers.

As dusk slips to night, the galra settle into their camp. It's nearby. Far too close to the Blade base for comfort. They run patrols constantly, half of them roaming the area nearby at any given time. From what he's gathered, they don't know there's a Blade of Marmora base nearby. They never once mention the Blade at all.

They are, however, looking for someone. An escaped prisoner. A turncoat. A traitor. He's not entirely sure. They lost her trail in this area, but judging from the begrudging way they go about things, they don't think she's still around. The leader of their unit hasn't let them move on, however. Not until the morning. So they set up to continue their search through the night.

Keith slinks down from his perch, falling silently to the earth and losing himself in the shadows of the twisting plant life. He waits. Counts his breaths. Listens to the footfalls.

He waits for the break between patrolling soldiers to dart through the open space, moving seamlessly through the opening and diving into the shadows once more. He moves through the forest on silent feet, hunched low and ears twitching.

He finds the rock outcropping. The solid stone juts from the earth in a wall, rising to a short cliff above. It's not too high. Enough to inconvenience a traveller, give someone a night view, or hide a secret door.

He moves along it, eyes aglow in the dark to help him see. Fingers trailing along the rock as he searches— searches— searches—

His fingers catch it first, and his eyes snap to examine the rock. There. Barely visible unless one knows what to look for. Markings carved into the rock made to look natural, but _feel_ as if they move against the natural grain. Something to catch his nails on.

He follows the subtle grooves in the rock to where a tree hugs the outcropping. Thick trunk and sweeping branches. A canopy of purple leaves that look black as ink in the night. They give him cover, hiding him from view as he moves toward where the rock and tree trunk meet.

There, hidden from view, is a crack in the rock. Just wide enough to slip through. Covered with moss and vines. He lets his nails trail along the Blade of Marmora symbol that's carved just inside the crack.

He moves the vines aside like a curtain and slips into the shadows.

The fissure through the rock feels natural. Rugged and rough edges catching his clothes and making the angle awkward. It's a tight fit, but still big enough for even a larger Marmoran to squeeze through. For anyone who might not realize a cavern lies beyond, it would be a terrifying attempt. Few would try it for fear of getting stuck. If they managed to find it at all.

It takes a moment, but the crack then widens abruptly, giving way to a more spacious cave. There's little here. Just a few mushrooms and glow flowers that cling to cracks in the rock. It's dark, but with his magic flaring behind his eyes, he can see perfectly.

He steps beyond the entryway to the tunnel that leads deeper into the cave system. It's small, but it could easily house several people in a pinch. He can hear the steady drip from a water source somewhere deeper through the tunnels, and he passes by alcoves carved into the rock that hold crates and barrels of supplies.

When he reaches the main room, a wide cavern with a domed ceiling, he ignores the supplies and bed bundles that are lining the walls. He walks straight to the center, kneeling down and running his fingers over a hole in the ground. It's too particular to be a crack. Dipping deep into the stone.

He reaches behind him, pulling out his Marmoran dagger. Without preamble, he shoves it into the hole. The blade slides in easily. A perfect fit.

He sends a brief sparking surge of his magic down his arm, through his hand and into his blade.

He waits, and after a moment, he feels the ley lines beneath him start to hum. A deep and subtle vibration. The hole in the stone begins to glow faintly, flowing up spiderweb fractures in his blade. He feels it vibrate in his hand. Feels the pulse of magic.

Then the stone on his hilt begins to glow, illuminating the Marmoran symbol.

He feels something catch. Feels it grab onto his blade and hold. And when he tugs, he feels the stone attach to his blade, holding tight.

He grunts, gritting his teeth and using both hands as he left his dagger by the handle. A tile of stone moves up with it. Thick and heavy. Revealing a hole beneath. He moves the stone to the side, setting it down before releasing his grip on the handle of his dagger.

Then he bends down, reaches into the hole, and pulls out the thick leather tomb.

He sits back, crossing his legs and placing the book on his lap. The cover has a few grains of dirt on it, but not the thick layer of dust that he expected and has seen at several other bases. He brushes it off, letting his fingers idly trace the marmora symbol pressed into the worn leather.

He heaves the thick tomb open, flipping through the pages until he reaches the first blank one. They'll have to replace this one soon enough. Even with their short hand coded script, centuries and frequent use of his base has nearly filled the book.

He smooths out the page before lifting a hand, putting the pad of his thumb to one of his fangs and pressing hard.

He doesn't wince as it breaks the skin. As the bite of salt and metal touches his tongue.

He presses his thumb to the page, closing his eyes and reaching out to his magic. He lets it rise. Feels the heat of it in his veins and the fire of it beneath his skin. Let it fill him. Focuses it down his arm to the blood weeping from his wound.

When he speaks, low and mumbled, his voice comes out dissonant. Foreign. Echoing and muted all at once. Vibrating with a power that warps his words.

_Keith, of the Marmora Tribe._

_I, along with Takashi Shirogane, of the Marmora Tribe, have made contact with the ancient alteans. We have made an agreement for an alliance, together with the rising human rebellion. We have been scattered for too long. We are uniting our allies and forming a stronger resistance to the spreading galra influence. I am leaving this message at several bases:_

_Travel to the north eastern isle of Ionia. Travel toward the center. The spirits will guide you. They will take you to the altean monastery and the hidden valley. It is safe there. This is where our allies are congregating. Spread the word. Meet us there. Unite our tribe once more._

As he speaks, the blood seeps from his thumb, crawling across the page in spiderwebs of red. It forms words, but not in a common language. The letters and symbols are jumbled and unique. A code that only the Blade know. Written onto the page by his magic and with his blood.

When he's done, he lifts his hand, putting his thumb to his lips as he looks it over. Perfect, as usual. Looks exactly like every message he's left so far in the logbooks at every other base.

For now, he's not in a rush. He'll stay here for the night and leave bright and early tomorrow. So once his message is written, he takes the time to flip back through the logbook to see who's been by recently and what news they bring.

He doesn't get any further than the page before his own. One entry ago. His eyes catch on an unfamiliar name, and then widen on a very familiar tribe.

_Krolia, of the Lhotlan tribe._

_The suspicion of the druids has grown to the point where I can no longer hold my cover. They pushed the conversion, and I knew it was time to leave. I managed to escape, but they have hunting parties out for me. I must be careful. I can still hear them outside these walls. They won't stop looking. I know too much._

_The research facility to the north of here is close to another break through with their experiments on crystal magic. They have several imprisoned human scientists and magicians working for them. We cannot let them gain or spread their knowledge about the crystals. The entire facility must be taken down. I do not know how. Once I lose my pursuers, I plan on finding allies to help me. Whatever the cost, the galra cannot learn how to harness the crystals._

His breath stills in his lungs. Eyes reading over the name over and over again. He's not familiar with it, and they're clearly not Marmoran. But... they've written in the logbook. And it's written in the same coded script the Blade uses, inked in blood. No to mention _finding_ the logbook would require a Marmoran blade.

So... they have to be part of the Blade. They have to be. And they're... if this is correct, they're like him. Like Lance.

He runs his fingers over the page, lightly caressing the words. He feels the touch of magic. Strange and foreign, but... startlingly familiar. He wants to pull his hand back, but he can't. It's fixed to the page as the echos of the magic used rush through him.

It's fresh. Very fresh. The echos are still loud and the magic new.

He slides his hand to the other page, feeling the words left by Thace. The echo of his magic is older. Duller. At least a year has passed since that message. No one has been by here in a while, except for...

 _Krolia_.

The shifting of a pebble. The light press of a step. The subtle scratch of stone. The gentle rustle.

Keith's back goes straight, adrenaline and magic flaring through him in an instant.

Instinct takes over and he moves. He closes the book and shoves it aside, rolling to his feet and up into a low crouch. Ears perked and swiveled toward the sound. Wing flared out and feathers standing on end. His fingers expertly plucking several, hardening them in his grip.

Movement out of the corner of his eye. His gaze snaps to it.

Someone pausing. Standing just within the shadows of the tunnel leading deeper into the cave system. Breaths still. Tension strung between them. Making the air in the cavern dead and muted. His heart beat in his ears. His pulse pounding against his ribs.

A step. A clawed foot comes into the light, covered in metal plates that make wicked sharpened talons hang over natural ones.

Another step, out of the shadows.

Hands held up, placating and wary.

The breath rushes from his lungs. His arms slowly lower to his sides. He slowly straightens.

She's beautiful. Older than him. Taller than him. Clothes in black and blue and silver. Her features sharp and angular. Purple marks rise from the back of her neck to points on her cheeks. Her hair is long, falling down her back in a ponytail. Dark at the top and fading to pink at the tips. Broad shoulders, held back as she stands tall and proud. Ears long and pointed and furry. Angled like Lance's but of a color similar to Keith's.

Her wings.

Tall and broad wings. Proud and regal. They sprout from her back, rising high and falling to the ground in waves of purple, magenta, and pink. Wings that look so similar to how his once had.

So similar, yet the color is just slightly off.

Her lips are pressed tight, dark eyes searching his face. They're hard, sharp, but there's something that glistens where light from the glow flowers catch. "Keith?" It's a cautious whisper. Breathless. Uncertain.

"How do you know my name?" He had meant for it to be a biting question, but it comes out in a strained breath.

Her lips quirk then. Just slightly. With the barest tilt of her head that makes her eyes gleam. "Many have heard of the Raven of Marmora."

While that's true, and while there are many things he should say, should ask, he finds himself stating the obvious instead. "You're not Marmoran."

Her hands fall to her sides, lips pressing into a small frown. "No. I am not."

"But..." His eyes flicker to the logbook at his feet, then back to her. Landing on the dagger strapped to her leg. The familiar make. The familiar gemstone. The familiar symbol. "You're part of the Blade?"

"Yes." Her hand shifts, fingertips brushing absently along the hilt of the dagger. Keith tenses, fingers tightening around his sharpened feathers, but the woman only huffs a soft breath. It almost sounds like a laugh. "I didn't steal it, if that's what you're thinking."

"Then how...?"

She sighs, glancing down at the logbook, though her gaze is distant. "The galra have started attacking more and more vastaya villages. They're taking prisoners. Putting them into labor camps, the arenas, and using them for experiments." Her voice is hard and cold, a pain there that sends shivers down his spine. "The Blade has started recruiting outside of the Marmora tribe. Kolivan himself found me, freed me, and gave me this blade. There are more like me. The vastayan resistance is far greater than one tribe, and Kollivan realizes that." She gestures with the sharp point of her chin. "If you read back in the book, you'll find several other names outside of the Marmora tribe."

A thousand questions.

A thousand things he needs to know.

He feels a clench in his chest. A warmth of his magic, restless beneath his skin. It reaches out, desperate and longing. He doesn't recognize her, but something in him does. The magic at his core. It takes all he has to remain where he stands. And when he speaks, his voice is low and cracked. "You're... like me."

Her eyes flicker back up to his, softening at the edges as she smiles. Small and slight. Just like he's been known to do. "Yes. I am."

He asks again because he needs to. He hears the fraying hope in his voice and feels the burn in his eyes. "How do you know my name?"

Her smile reaches her eyes, and he can see a similar glistening of unshed tears catching the light. Her voice is quiet, hoarse, and broken. "A mother never forgets."

 

* * *

 

They talk through most of the night. Stilted and awkward conversation. They sit close enough to be in each other's orbit, but far enough apart to be given space. It's far from familiar, both of them far too uncertain of the gap between them, but with each hour that passes, Keith can feel some of the tension melting from the air.

They take turns sharing their stories. Halting and hesitant at first, until the dam breaks and the words tumble from lips. Filling the space between them with hushed confessions.

He learned that she was captured and imprisoned in the arenas for a long, long time. He learned that Kollivan found her and made her a Blade. He learned that she's been working undercover as the galra have started to recruit vastaya.

She learned that Shiro had found him, and that the Marmora tribe had taken him in. She learned that they had raised him and cared for him. She learned that he became a Blade when their home was destroyed. She learned that he's spent the last few centuries looking for Shiro. That he found him. That he found other friends. That he found Lance.

He tells her of the alteans and their new alliance. Of his new mission to gather the Blade.

With her own mission compromised and terminated, she agrees to come back with him.

His sleep that night is restless, mind far too busy processing everything he's learned.

In the morning, the two of them take out the galra troop together. Leaving their bodies to spill into the soil as they head back east. He learns his mother also sharpens her feathers into daggers, and that knowledge sends a thrill through his heart.

 

* * *

 

They sit around the small camp. Fire warming their skin. Stars glittering overhead. Pooling ley lines humming beneath them.

Krolia idly skins a rabbit she killed, and Keith watches her from over the flames. Knees pulled up and arms wrapped around them. In the silence and peace of the evening, encouraged by the camaraderie they've been building, he finds the courage to ask what he's been holding back.

"What happened to my dad?"

Krolia's movements slow to a stop, knife frozen. Blade gleaming with fresh blood. She stares at the rabbit in her hands. If he looks hard enough, he can see the tremble. When he looks up to her face, her eyes are hard and distant. Her lips pursed tight as sorrow washes over her.

"He died when we were ambushed." Her voice is barely heard over the crackling of the fire. "We were traveling... visiting family in another village when the galra attacked us. We ran and hid you away, and we turned to fight them off. He took a blow meant for me, and it was fatal. I was captured, but I don't remember the first few years. It was a haze. Haunted by memories of his last breaths and worry over what had happened to you."

She looks up then. Her eyes glazed and glassy. Despite the shadows that haunt them, stretching across her features, she smiles. "Kollivan recognized my feathers and told me of you. Since then, I listened for rumors of the Raven of Marmora. I had hoped our paths would cross one day, but you hovered close to the south, and my missions kept me in the north."

Keith's gaze lowers to the fire, losing himself in the flames. He lets that sink in. Lets it wash over him. Lets it settle and click into place in his heart before he asks, "What was he like?" He glances up, catching Krolia's eye. "My dad?"

Her smile softens, lifting her cheeks. A tear falls from the corner of her eyes, trailing over her facial markings, but she makes no move to wipe it away. "Strong. Kind. Gentle. Selfless. Handsome. He smoothed out my jagged edges, made me want to be better, but he never sought to change me. He was everything one could ask in a mieli." Her eyes search his face, head tilting to the side. "I can him in you. In some of your features. In your kindness and strength. He had feathers like the midnight sky. Dark blue fading to black. It is where you get your deeper coloring from." Her gaze roams to his wing, flickering sharply to the broach on the front of his cloak. Her smile widens, if only a fraction. "And I see I am not the only one partial to men with blue feathers."

Heat rises to his cheeks, hot and fast. He drops his forehead to his knees with a groan, hiding the creeping flush from sight. He hears Krolia's soft, breathy chuckle. Hears her go back to skinning their dinner. Hears the silence and crackling fire once more settle between them. Comfortable and soothing.

He tilts his head and lets Lance's feathers brush against his cheek, smile hidden from sight.

 

* * *

 

He leads the way through the trees, leaping from branch to branch. His feet barely touch before pushing off again. The forest's trees grow close, branches thick and weaving together until they become a layer above the ground, surrounded and canopied by leaves. He sets the pace quickly, eager to return to the monastery and delighted that his mother can keep pace with him.

She's strong and powerful, poised and elegant. He feels a shiver of pride whenever he sees demonstrations of her strength.

Right now, she follows a fraction behind. He can hear her footfalls landing in pace with his. The creek of the metal talons she wears on her feet. The rustle of her wings in the leaves around them. His own wing flares out behind him, fluttering like a cloak.

He can feel her gaze on it, hot and heavy, air thick with her hesitant curiosity.

He stops when they reach the end of the web of trees. Placing a hand on the trunk, feeling the vibration of the tree's energy beneath his fingertips, he glances to the sky. The sun is moving toward the horizon, but they still have several hours of daylight left.

Krolia stops beside him. Not a beat out of breath. Standing tall and feathers rising behind her before cascading elegantly down her back.

"There's another base a fraction to the south from here," He says. "It's still on our way. We can leave a message there and spend the night in the base."

She hums. Acknowledgement and agreement. When she speaks, however, it's gentle and curious, carefully prodding. "How did it happen? Your wing..."

He rolls his shoulder. The weight of it has become familiar. Comforting, in a way. The shape of it just as much apart of him as his arms and legs. "Galra," He says simply. "Imprisoned and questioned. They clipped our wings and were going to send us to an arena, but we escaped."

"We?"

"Me and Lance. He... got captured with me. They thought he knew things, but he didn't. He... lost his wing because of me."

"Does he blame you?"

Keith feels his heart squeeze, pleasant warmth edging through his veins. The corner of his lips lift. "No. He never has. We don't have the magic to regrow a wing, but shifting the remaining one into a new design was his idea. It's more balanced this way."

"Does it hurt?"

"Not anymore. It's comfortable."

She hums again, thoughtful as she gazes at the late afternoon sky. "This Lance... you talk of him often. He sounds like an incredible man."

Heat touches his skin. Smile widening without his consent. Voice far softer than intended. "He is."

She hums. Shifts her weight. "Come, we have more ground to cover. You can tell me more of your mieli when we reach the base."

She leaps from the branch, wings fluttering behind her to slow her decent. She lands gracefully on the ground, already taking off at a sprint. Leaving Keith sputtering behind her. "He's not my— _Krolia!_ "

He takes off after her, and he swears he can hear the low rumble of her laugh echoing through the trees.

 

* * *

 

"So we're... _not_ from the Lhotlan tribe?" Keith asks, nose wrinkling in his confusion.

Krolia shakes her head, touch of a smile on her lips. They trudge across a valley. An open plain of rolling hills. The grass rises to their waists, shifting and dancing in the wind, speckled with flowers. "We are Lhotlan, but the Lhotlan tribe spans across many villages around Ionia. From what you've told me of Lance and his home, he is from the same village your father was born in."

"Born in, but not where he lived?"

She nods, hands spread to grave of the tops of the grass. "He was born there, but his family relocated to a more isolated ranch between villages. They were a way point for Lhotlan travelers, and they were land fisher of the great grass rivers." She smiles, plucking a flower as she walks and gazing down at it with distant eyes. "He used to harvest grains from the moving tides. It was a quiet life, but one he enjoyed."

"So then what about you?" There's a vibration running through him. A hum of excitement. Finally learning his place in the world and where he's from. A strange peace knowing his father was one of Lance's people. A thrill learning that his mother is from elsewhere.

"I was born and raised in a village set further into the mountains. Where your father's village tends to have feathers of blues and greens and yellows, my people had feathers of purples and reds, pinks and oranges. He was captivated by my feathers when we first met, as I was by his." Her smile is small, voice gentle as she places the dark blue flower in her hair, tucking it behind an ear. "I was a battle dancer. Well known and trained in the traditional arts."

"Does... your village still stand?" He asks, hesitant as he risks a glance.

Her brows furrow, smile fading. "I... do not know. I hope so."

"Maybe..." He reaches out, plucking some grass as he walks. Running his hands through the swaying stalks. He looks away. To the lake glittering in the sun below. "Maybe some time you can take me there."

"I would like that."

 

* * *

 

Keith hisses as she pulls another bur from his hair, wincing as it tugs at his roots. She coos gently, a soothing rumble that eases tension from him on an deep level he'd never known existed. A sound that prickles a memory form long, long ago. Slipping through his fingers like all his memories before the Marmora tribe.

He sits on a rock, legs crossed and hands resting on his knees, fingers clenched and nails biting through his leggings into flesh. His back is hunched, feathers poofed and fluffed in his agitation.

They had been caught up in a stampede of wild beasts. Hoofed and large and dangerous in their panic, chased by large canines with lolling tongue, large teeth, and baying howls. They had outrun the stampede, clambering up trees to perch high above the chaos and sprinting across branches to safety.

But a beast had been tackled into a tree, sending Keith tumbling to a thicket below.

Now, well out of danger, his mother coos him into silence as she picks the burs from his hair and feathers.

He shivers as her fingers run through his hair, nails lightly scratching at his scalp. It's different from when Lance does it. It's... familiar. Soothing. Comforting in a way he'd never known he wanted. Her movements and sounds are protective and gentle, easing tension from him even as the pain of her tugging the barbed little puffs from his skin stings.

Her fingers then brush his ears, and he shudders. She pinches the base of them and gently massages the delicate skin, and Keith finds his eyes fluttering closed. Melting with a soft sigh into the show of familial affection.

"Did they grow like this?"

"No..." He stiffens, shifting uncomfortably on the rock. "When I was young, I... shifted them to try to make them look more like Marmoran ears... Now they just look dumb."

"I think they're cute." She chuckles, pinching his ears in a way that makes him groan with embarrassment. But at the same time, there's a pleased simmering beneath his skin. This is what its like to have a mother.

He... he has a mother.

 _He has a mother_.

 

* * *

 

As they step from the tunnel into open air, walking out onto the massive land bridge that leads to the altean monastery, Keith's blood sings, thrumming through his veins with a rising melody.

He can hear, can _feel_ the answering harmony ahead.

He sees him on the far end of the bridge. Sees the way his feathers catch in the sunlight. Sees the bronze glow of his skin. _Feels_ the way his magic calls out to him.

Keith doesn't realize he's running until he feels the wing pulling through his hair, tugging at his clothes and his wing. He darts forward, feet flying across the worn cobbled stone. Barely touching as he bounds across the bridge. His eyes lock onto Lance running toward him. His own wing a flaring and whipping behind him.

The grin on his lips is wide and gleaming.

They collide in the center, but their momentum never stops. He leaps at Lance, and Lance catches him. Strong arms wrap around his middle, hoisting him into the air and using their chaotic colliding momentum to spin them around. There's a dance in his step as he does it, their wings flaring around around them in a swirling pattern of purple and blue.

There's a laugh on his lips, bubbling out from his chest and tasting of relief on his tongue.

He hears the same laugh spill from Lance, bubbling away into the wind.

He wraps his arms around Lance's neck as his feet are lowered to the ground. He buries his face in the crook of Lance's shoulder, nuzzling into his warmth. Into warm skin. Breathing in his familiar crisp scent and pressing his lips to the column of his neck with a sigh.

Lance's arms tighten around him as they melt together, tension easing from their bodies as they both slump into the embrace. One arm remains around his waist while the other slides up his back, fingers carding through his hair and cradling his head in place.

Lance burrows his face into Keith's hair. Sighing against his skin. Nuzzling into him with a restless affection.

"I missed you," He murmurs into Keith's hair, lips brushing the base of his ears. A warm tendril of delight worms through him.

"I missed you, too."

There's the soft press of footsteps. Of talons pointedly scrapping on stone. The low clearing of a throat. Lance lifts his head first, and Keith feels him tense. Keith pulls back, just far enough to look at him while still keeping their arms loosely around each other. Lance's mouth hangs open, lips parted and eyes wide as he stares.

"Sorry to interrupt," Krolia says, amusement dancing through her voice.

"Keith," Lance whispers, voice strained. "She looks just like..."

Keith steps back, pulling away from Lance and moving to the side. There's a smirk tugging at his lips as he gestures to Krolia. "Lance, this is my mom." A giddiness shivers through him. A bubbling remind that she _is_ his mom. That he has a mom. She's alive, and she's here.

Lance glances to him, eyes still wide, and Keith feels his smirk stretch into a grin. Lance looks awed. Starstruck. Keith can't blame him. Krolia is an impressive sight. "Whoa..." He then smiles, straightening his own back and stepping forward. Keith can't help the soft snort when he sees Lance puff up his wing and his chest. He holds out his hand. "Name's Lance. It's an honor to meet you."

She smiles. Small and slight. Just at the corners of her lips. She steps forward, clasping Lance's forearm as he does hers. "The honor is all mine. My name is Krolia." She stands taller, both wings displayed and regal, but Lance looks no smaller next to her. No less beautiful and pristine.

A familiar smirk crawls across his lips, coy and mischievous. "I'm a big fan of your work." He glances to Keith, sending him a wink that's anything but subtle. Keith lifts a brow, crossing his arms over his chest, but he can feel his lips betraying his amusement.

"I have heard a lot about you."

He turns back to Krolia, smirk fading into something shier, though his laugh is boisterous. "Good things, I hope."

"Mostly," She says, her own mischief sparkling in her eyes. It lasts for only a moment before she becomes more somber. More sincere. "Thank you for taking care of my son."

Lance's smile fades. Becomes a shadow of itself. But there's a gentleness there. An open vulnerability and fondness as he says, "He takes care of me, too."

Krolia nods, dropping Lance's arm. Her eyes flicker upward, gazing over his shoulder. "Is that the Shiro you've told me about?"

Keith glances over to where Shiro stands in front of the monastery. Tall and proud with his arms crossed over his chest. He stands next to Allura, the two of them smiling, heads bowed as they talk. "Yes, the marmoran is Shiro. The woman next to him is Allura."

She nods once more, already moving past the two of them. "I will go introduce myself and give you a moment alone with your mieli."

Something warm moves through him. Not a flush, nor embarrassment. Something comforting. Something delighted. It settles deep in his core, easing into place with a feeling of contentment. Something that just feels _right_. It slots into place like it belongs there, leaving him with none of the fraying nerves and anxious embarrassment that the word had once instilled.

Lance, however, sputters. He turns on his heel, eyes wide and mouth dropping open, voice bursting from him before choking off. "That— He's— We're not—"

But Krolia is already gone, walking briskly and purposefully across the bridge.

Lance stares after her, shoulders slumping and brows pinching as his lips purse into a little pout. Keith steps forward, a small smile on his lips and fondness warm in his heart. He reaches out, slipping his hand into Lance's.

Lance turns to him then, though his expression doesn't fade. "She... she called me your mieli."

Keith hums, lifting his other hand to cup Lance's face. Feeling the weight of it in his palm as Lance leans into the touch. Gently brushing his thumb over the marks on Lance's cheek. "She did."

"You didn't correct her," He whispers, breath hot on Keith's thumb as he presses it to Lance's bottom lip. HIs pout eases away.

"I didn't."

His eyes search Keith's, hope and fear colliding into one. Clear as day and shining in those familiar stormy irises. "Why?"

Keith smiles then, leaning in to press his lips to Lance's. Reveling in the sweetness of his kiss. Delighting in the way his body shutters, magic coiling out to meet Lance's. In the way his heart soars and flutters.

He smiles against Lance's lips, breathing into him. "Wishful thinking.”

 

* * *

 

The valley is alive.

Music drifts through the air, carried on a breeze. Laughter and voices. The pound of drums and the plucking of strings. Voices colliding, weaving, intertwining, carried higher and higher and higher before dispersing into the wind.

Light fills the valley. Bonfires lit up between buildings. Globes of light and night flies drift in the air. Spirits float along, tucked away in the trees.

The smell of food is thick and heady. Savory meats and baked breads. Roasted sweets and honey glazes. The smell of incense and roasting herbs.

Alteans, humans, and vastaya gather together. They sing together, uniting their instruments and their songs as one. Chaotic in nature until they find a common beat, a common ground, and then building and building and building. Woven together with the chorus of wild magic behind it. They sing, voices joining together in cheer and merriment. Voices that sing and more that call back. Languages of ancient and forgotten times woven in with the new.

And they dance.

They gather in the light of the fires. Beneath the drifting glow of spirits. Blanketed by stars and alight with the moon. They _dance_.

Bodies moving and writhing to the demands of the melodies. To the beat of the drums. Called and commanded by the ancient power of hope and harmony of camaraderie.

Their numbers are still few. Only a few humans, vastaya, and Blades have come, but this is only the beginning. It's only the start of their gathering. Their numbers will grow. The valley will fill.

For the first time since they first arrived, the heavy weight and droll aura of monotony had dissipated. Time is alive. The valley is alive. The _people_ are alive.

Lance leads many of the songs, guiding the others in weaving together altean hymns with vastaya beats and human choruses. He adds the bouncing flare learned from the sailors. He weaves old with new. He teaches the songs, the chords, the progressions.

He sings a ballad in that old, ancient Lhotlan tongue, and Keith is startled to hear his mom's voice join his. Weaving together, solemn and melancholy, but building into something hopeful. Hearing the old tongue from his mothers lips, woven with melody, sends a shiver of memory through his core.

Lance teaches them the new songs. New and old all at once. Ancient vastaya songs that were woven into tapestries, hung in the monastery, and forgotten. He'd spent days sitting in front of them. Examining the notation with lute in hand. Often with Keith leaning against his back, content to simply drift while he listened to Lance puzzle out the ancient melodies.

And when he's done singing, Lance leaves his lute behind, takes Keith's hand, and brings him into the light to _dance_.

They twirl and twist beneath the stars. Between the other dancers. Quick and lithe and agile. Sweeping and light on their feet. When Keith tires, Lance asks Krolia to dance, and Keith gets the pleasure of watching them twirl and spin across the ground with a strength and veracity that seems evenly matched.

Battle dancers.

He can see it. It's in the way they move together. In the way they feed off each other's energy. In the way their movements have a strength and poise and controlled direction. A fury in their movements that sparks in the air between them.

He sees them both smile, manic and mischievous, daring and wild.

He hears their laughter drift into the music, mingling into it like a new harmony.

It's in the late hours of the night, when the shadows are deepest but the eastern horizon begins to show a lighter blue, that Keith finds Lance alone.

He's perched in a tree, high above the building it forms and nestled in the taller branches. Keith knows he's there before he sees him. Following the familiar tug of his magic.

"Hey," Keith says, voice barely above a whisper as he sits on the branch next to him. Scooting close. Pressing their bodies together to take in his heat.

Lance glances over at him, small smirk playing on his lips. "Hey."

His tail wraps around Keith's leg where it dangles. Keith's wing lays overtop Lance's. He leans his head onto Lance's shoulder, and Lance rests his head atop Keith's.

"What're you doing up here?"

"Just... thinking."

"About what?"

"About... the galra. Shadow magic. The way it sucks away wild magic."

Keith hums, reaching out to take Lance's hand. Squeezing it gently. He's been around it a lot longer than Lance has. Has seen the effects of it up close for centuries. He knows it still haunts Lance. He's woken up in the night several times in a cold sweat with the silent screams of the dying magic echoing in his head. During those times, Keith holds him close, running fingers through his hair and his feathers as his body calms down.

"I saw the temple again. The one we saw on our way here. I passed by it on my journey to the nearby vastaya villages." Lance's voice is soft but words hard at the edges as he looks down over the valley. At the fires and dancers below. Keith's ears twitch, and he turns to look at him, lips pursed. As if feeling his stare, Lance smiles. "I didn't do anything rash, don't worry. I just watched."

His smile fades, lips pressing into a frown. Keith longs to smooth it out. To make that carefree smile from earlier return. Instead he squeezes Lance's hand harder.

"The area is still dying. The magic is still corrupted. But there are fewer galra. The one Shiro called Sendak... he wasn't there. I think he moved on. It's not nearly as guarded as it was."

There's something in the way he says that. Something... coy hiding beneath the indifference. Beneath the facts and the even tone. Something... hopeful. Mischievous. Eager.

Keith reaches out, feeling for his magic, and is confronted with an eerie calm. The strange and ominous stillness that proceeds a rising storm.

He feels his own magic react to it. Feels the embers burn, eager to ignite.

Keith looks out over the valley. At the celebrations and camaraderie. They rejoice today because they'll fight soon. But he's never been good at waiting. He's never been good at biding his time. He's always been one to lead by example, and perhaps the rising coalition needs an example to show what they can accomplish. What fighting back means. A foothold for the oncoming war.

Lance has come to be his restraint. His stability. HIs impulse control.

But here and now, Lance is offering him something. The promise lingering between his words. Humming in the magic at his core.

Keith lifts his chin, feeling the wind on his skin. Rubs his thumb over Lance's knuckles. Hums low in his chest as he says, "What'd you say we do something impulsive?"

He glances out of the corner of his eye, seeing the gleam in Lance's gaze. The way his lips curl at the edges makes Keith's pulse pound. "Something reckless?"

"Something mad."

"Something wild."

The light from the rising sun dances across Lance's smirk, catching on his fangs. Lighting up the mischief in his eyes. The sharp desire and the passion of madness.

A wildness.

A fury.

A chaos.

Keith feels himself caught in the storm. Caught and ignited.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _The humans call it battle. It's just a dance_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

The temple is worse than they remember it. The vines and foliage that had covered the stone are dry and cracked. Blackened and twisted. Hanging over the structure in crawling tendrils of shadow. From within, he can see the muted dull reddish glow.

The landscape surrounding the temple isn't much better. The land is dying, having been sucked of its life force by the creeping shadow magic. The grass is brittle and colorless. The forest surrounding the temple is merely a husk of what it once was. Void of color. Void of life. Blackened. Charred. Empty. Twisted.

The ley lines beneath the area are riddled with shadows, the fragment of remaining wild magic welling from the pool silently screaming as its choked and corrupted. The ley lines pulse like blackened veins beneath the earth.

The air is dry and smells faintly of sulfur and decay. A thin fog rises from the earth, obscuring and curling upward before dissipating into the air.

It's spread much further than last time he was here. Leaking far into the forest beyond. By the time they reach the tree line surrounding the clearing, all they can see is darkened, dying forest around them. As far as the eye can see, little remains of Ionia's flourishing and lively landscape.

It makes his wing bristle and his skin crawl.

But that's why they're here.

To fix it.

Lance is antsy at his side. Restless and eager. He shifts his weight, hearing the soft crunch of brittle foliage beneath their feet. They crouch between the trees, keeping to the shadows to avoid their feathers catching the light.

There are a few soldiers roaming the clearing surrounding the temple. Galra. Aimless, but not oblivious. Their numbers are obscure, most of their forms and movements hidden by the rising mist.

He's not foolish enough to believe this is all of them, but these are the ones that block the entrance to the temple. If they can take these ones out, it's no doubt a good chunk of the surrounding troop's numbers.

He feels a hand fall to his arm, squeezing gently. And it's not until then that he realizes how tense he is. How his fists are curling his nails into his palms. How his jaw is aching as he clenches his teeth.

He breathes out, long and slow, tilting his head to catch Lance's eye. They're dancing mischievously. Eager and excited. Confident and cocky. But the playful edge is only a front for the fury of a storm that brews beneath. The smirk on his lips is sharp. Fangs glinting.

As beautiful as he is, he's dangerous.

 _They_ are dangerous.

They are vastaya, and they will take back what is theirs.

Lance leans forward, pressing his forehead to Keith's temple. His eyes flutter closed, and Keith feels his long exhale drift across his cheek. Then he's pulling back, reaching up to adjust Keith's hood, fingers gently drifting up on ear before his hand falls.

He offers Keith a wink, and then he shifts away. Closer to the tree line. There's a galra walking there. Alert, but not wary. Their body wrapped in dark colors. Hood over their head and cloth covering much of their face. They blend into the desolate landscape.

Keith reaches for his wing, pulling out several feathers, clutching them between his fingers, letting his magic spark across them as they harden into blades.

Lance whistles. Quick and high pitched. Just a few short notes. Teasingly taunting.

The solider stiffens, turning toward the noise and pulling out two daggers.

With a streak of magenta, leaving a fading glowing trail in its wake, one of Keith's feathers imbeds itself into the galra's chest.

The solider stumbles, eyes widening in their surprise as they look down, one hand curling around the glowing feather sunken into their chest. Blood seeping into their clothes. Then they start to go limp, knees giving way as they start to collapse.

Lance is there in an instant. Darting forward from the tree line. One arm sweeps beneath the falling galra's back, the other grabbing their arm. He uses their falling momentum to sweep them around, humming softly to himself and grinning as he dips them in a morbid mockery of a dance.

Keith steps up to his side, amusement making a brow arch.

The sound of sharp blades being released from their sheaths.

The two of them turn. Galra soldiers begin to emerge from the shadows. Their forms taking shape in the fog. Scattered around the clearing. Perching on boulders. Glowing yellow eyes affixed to the two vastaya.

The body in Lance's arms drops unceremoniously to the ground. He grins, wide and wild. Eyes sharp as the storm in them crashes into the rising swells of the sea. His fangs glint dangerously as he rolls his shoulders.

With an exhale that sounds like excitement, he darts forward. Sprinting into the clearing headlong toward the soldiers, wing a fluttering blue wake.

For just a moment, just a small fraction of time, Keith allows himself to smile. A small smirk that curls his lips as his own magic buzzes and flares across his skin, pulsing from his core.

And then he's sprinting forward after him.

Lance's strides are long, leaping off of rocks and boulders as he dives for every galra coming toward them. He jumps and spins, kicking them aside. He leaps into the air, grabbing them by the arm and spinning them to the ground. He slides across the earth and takes their legs out from beneath them.

Keith is behind him. His feathers leaving glowing streaks in the desolate air. Cutting through the fog to sink into the galra that Lance lines up for him.

And the entire time, Lance _laughs_. Melodic and terrifying. Bubbling up into the dry air in a taunt and a challenge.

He barrels forward. Leaping into a spin that has his wing curling around him like a cocoon. He skids to a landing in a group of seven soldiers, crouched low as his talons dig into the dirt. His wing glows as it unfurls, blue magic dripping and coming from his feathers in misting waves. With a flourish of his arm, he slides his wing along the ground, producing a small wave of wisping blue magic to crawl beneath the group's feet.

With the flash of a grin and the crook of his arm, he leaps upward. High into the air. His wing rising up like a command. The magic beneath him obeys. Shooting forward into the sky in his wake. The flare of energy lifts the galra after him. Startled sounds leaving their lips as they're tossed into the air.

At the height of his ascent, Lance hovers, gravity slow to take affect as his magic flares, keeping them all in place. One arm is held up in the arm, his wing flaring up behind it in a curling backdrop and an extension of himself. He poses. Looking regal in the air. Surrounded by wisping blue magic reminiscent of waves. Several galra soldiers hovering weightless in the air around him.

Keith stretches his stride, foot landing on a bolder. He pushes off, leaping into the air as he spins. His fingers grab more feathers, sharpening them into blades as he flings his hands out. They leave his grip with tendrils of his own magic, hot and jagged as lightning.

His feathers all find their mark, slicing into the hovering galra.

Keith lands in a crouch, slowly rising to his feet as his fingers curl, calling his feathers back to him. They dislodge from the bodies, shooting back to him as he places them deftly back into place in his wing.

The bodies fall heavily, landing scattered across the ground with muffled _thumps_.

Lance lands gracefully. One arm and wing still held out to the side. One foot behind the other as his other arm crosses his chest and he falls into a low bow.

He looks up, chin tilted and lopsided smirk catching the fading glow of his magic. His eyes are alive and eager as his gaze finds Keith's.

Keith rolls his eyes, the momentum of it tilting his head as he turns toward the temple. But there's a smile on his lips that he can't quite hide.

The sound of footsteps has him tensing. Head whipping around. Lance's wing drops as he turns to look over his shoulder.

Several more galra emerge from the tree line. Blades and weapons at the ready. Sliding from the shadows and fog.

Lance turns back to him. There's a sharpness to his grin and a dark gleam in his eyes. He stretches his hands forward, fingers intertwined to crack them. He snaps his head to the side, rolling his shoulders. With a wink, he spins around, darting toward the new galra.

Keith huffs an amused breath, turning on his heel and stepping toward the temple.

He knows Lance will be fine.

As he steps up to the open doors, he can feel the press of shadow magic. It's everywhere, hanging heavy in the air. It crawls across his skin, poking and prodding with dark tendrils. Seeking his own magic. It fills his lungs and presses in on him. He shudders, but moves forward.

Heavy decaying vines hang over the entry way, and he carefully moves them aside, slowly and cautiously stepping through them into the temple. His steps, quiet as they may be, seem to echo in the dead space. The vines fall closed behind him, and he feels emerged and trapped in the wide, cavernous chamber.

He can hear the sounds of Lance fighting outside, but it's dull and muted.

As Keith watches, light motes drift in from outside, drift up from the ground where the ley lines pool. They glow, gentle and dim. Tiny sparks of wild magic. They drift past him. Dancing across his feathers and his ears. Drifting up, and up, and up—

And as they go, they change. They shake and silently scream as they fade to a dull red to black. Looking like ashes rising toward the ceiling of the temple.

And there— at the top of the temple, lies the source of the corruption.

A breath leaves his lungs. It's unlike anything he's ever seen. No doubt whatever had caused this corruption to be so quick and devastating. After a moment, he realizes that it's Ionian crystal. A broken circle of it. Hovering just below the ceiling and slowly spinning. The surface of it is dark with mottled red. Glowing sickeningly whenever a mote of corrupted wild magic absorbs into it.

Keith's eyes narrow as he observes, head tilted back as he stands at the center of the temple.

Movement. The sheen of a blade sliding out of its sheath.

Keith's ears swivel in the direction.

His head snaps to the side in time to see a figure emerge from the shadows, leaving a swirling puff of black smoke in his wake as he dives forward. The blades jutting from the metal on his wrists gleaming wickedly in the dim light.

Keith throws himself to the side just as those blades dig into the stone where he had been standing, cracking the floor.

But the galra uses it as leverage, using his momentum to swing his legs around and drive them into Keith's chest, sending him flying.

He rolls across the ground, leaping into the air, placing a foot on the wall, and pushing off. He dives past the charging galra, spinning past him and dodging the swing of his blades. He lands hard, feet skidding across the ground as he crouches. Grabbing for feathers, sharpening them, he hurls his hand forward, shooting three toward the solider as he turns.

But with a puff of black smoke and a swing of his arm, he deflects them.

They shoot up into the air, sinking into the slowly spinning crystal above. They impact with a sharp sound, cracking the surface. Keith tilts his head up, watching as the corrupted crystal sparks and glows where it's been cracked.

He feels himself smile.

Hears the galra growl.

Looks back to them to make eye contact, smile falling from his lips as he pulls out more feathers. Sharpening them between his fingers. Watches as the galra's blades slide from the metal on the back of his wrist, hovering above their hands.

A moment of stillness. A moment of watching.

And then they're both darting forward.

It's quick. He barely has enough time to think, only react. But his instincts are sharpened. Honed. His body knows what to do and how to move long before he decides to.

The galra swings, jabs, and Keith rolls away. He deflects with his daggers and throws his feathers. The galra knocks them away, dodges them in a puff of smoke. Move. Dodge. Swing. Parry. Throw. Dodge.

Keith loses himself to the movement. To the adrenaline. To the burn in his lungs and the heat of his magic sizzling beneath his skin. The ache of his legs and the sting when he catches the blade with flesh.

He revels in it.

Thrives in it.

This is a dance he knows. He can hear the faint pulsing of wild magic urging him on.

He blocks a swipe of the blade, but takes a kick to the ribs. He's send sprawling across the floor, quickly getting his hands and knees under him as he looks up.

The galra leaps high, backlit by the dull glow of the corrupted crystal as he starts to fall. Arm pulled back. Wrist blade poised and ready.

Keith pushes himself to his feet, darting forward several steps before leaping into the air. He spins, magic crackling like wildfire across his wing. Feathers dislodge. Streaking into the air with the momentum of his spin. They shoot upwards, leaving glowing trails, momentarily lighting up the room.

But they streak past the descending galra. Sinking deep into the stone of the ceiling.

They collide in the air.

He's thrown to the side and hits the ground hard, taking the brunt of impact with his shoulder. The galra impacts the ground with a puff of smoke and cracking stone.

They rise easily to their feet, yellow eyes narrowed on Keith.

Breathing heavily, he pushes himself into a low crouch. A sharp sting twists in his side. An ache that pulses out through his torso. He puts his hand there. A cut in his clothes. A tear in his flesh. The wet warmth of his blood seeping through. His lungs burn and his body aches, but he's not done.

He feels the pulsing chill of Lance's magic. Hears the footsteps at the entryway to the temple and hears his soft gasp. Thinks he hears his name.

He hears the galra step forward. Armor clinking together. Hears them sharpen their blades together.

Head bowed, hood shadowing his features, one hand on the ground to hold himself up, he lifts his other hand. Palm stained with blood. Talons sharp. He feels a smirk curl his lips as he begins to move his fingers. A gentle wave of them, palm up.

He gathers his magic. Pulls it from his core and focuses it at his palm. Feels it crackle over his skin. Feels it spark and ignite. Sees the glow of it emanate from his hand. Growing brighter, brighter, brighter—

He calls out to his magic. The magic of the feathers imbedded in the ceiling. Pieces of him. Still imbued with fragments of his magic.

Calls them home.

He hears quick footsteps, rushing from two sides.

The galra charging him head on.

Lance sprinting toward him from behind.

Keith's hands curl sharply with a hard tug on his magic. He feels the feathers above dislodge from the ceiling. Feels them streak sharply through the air toward him. Back to his wing. White hot and sharp, they cut direct paths, slicing right through the hovering corrupted crystal between the ceiling and their destination.

They shoot through the air, sinking into Keith's wing, back in place. They land with a hot sting, but dull immediate into the warmth of relief.

He hears the crystal crack and splinter above. Hears it burst at the seams as the magic contained leaks out, wild and demanding. Hears it shatter.

Hears the wild magic explode outward, the force of it crumbling the temple around them.

He hears the whole thing begin to fall.

He looks up in time to see the galra leaping through the air, blade aimed for him, eyes bright and yellow with single minded fury.

And then it's all gone with a brilliant blue flash. A swirling flare of blue energy that circles him, surrounds him, and blocks everything out as the temple falls around them.

A warm body pressed over his back. Strong arms wrapped around him. A wing circling him. The cooling and stormy tides of familiar magic surrounding him in a bubble. Making him feel safe. He sighs. Lets the air rush from his lungs as he leans into the man behind him. As he revels in the familiar touch of Lance's magic.

When the rumble around them stops, Lance's magic slowly fades. Drifting away from them. Seeping back away and dissipating into the air. Hands grip his arms, pulling him gently to his feet and turning him around.

Keith lifts his head to meet Lance's gaze. Eyes soft and gentle. Worried and fond as he reaches out, fingertips carefully drifting across the cut in Keith's lip and the scratch on his cheek.

Keith smiles against his fingers, reaching up to cup Lance's sharp jaw. Running his thumb over the bruise high on Lance's cheekbone.

Lance scoffs gently, rolling his eyes as he playfully jerks away from the touch. But he turns back quickly, blue irises glinting in the sunlight and crinkling at the edges. He leans forward to nuzzle into Keith's temple, sighing into the fur of his ear. There's relief in his touch. A reverence in the way his arm wraps loosely around Keith's waist.

Keith then turns, looking at the rubble around them. He only has a moment to mourn the loss of the temple before there's a sparkling flare of magic.

It rises from the earth, from the pooling ley lines deep below. It surges forward with a newfound strength, chasing away and pursing the last clinging bits of shadow magic. It rushes forward, healing the cracked ley lines.

And as it pours forth, the landscape begins to heal.

They watch in awe as the magic seeps back into the land. As flowers begin to bloom over the rubble, bright and glowing in the sun as they unfurl. As the grass regains colors, whipping up with a wind. As life is breathed back into the trees, the vines, the leaves.

Color washes over the landscape in a wave of surging magic.

Restoring.

Healing.

Keith leans into Lance's side. Lance's arm tightens around his waist. The wellspring of magic beneath them flares, kicking up a wind of energy around them. Tugging on their clothes and their hair. Their wings lift with it, feathers happily bathing in the magic in the air.

Their wings flare up. Spreading out to the sides as they stand close. One wing each, but one to each side.

Together complete.

Together whole.

Heads tilted together and bodies slumped into each other, they watch the land come alive.

This is only the beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last scene here is based on [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O4PDzBnBMU4) of Xayah and Rakan, who are the basis for Keith and Lance's design and inspiration for this story. So if you wanna see that scene in motion, go take a watch and just imagine Keith and Lance. 
> 
> Check out my social media to learn more about me, my writing, and this au!
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THIS FIC ANYWHERE ELSE.** This means you, Wattpad users.
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THE ART FROM THIS FIC.** This includes platforms such as instagram and pinterest.  
> Reblog it from the artist: [tumblr](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/185528511184/wild-magic-chapter-5-wittyy-name-s-been) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters/status/1138577071100301312)  
>    
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)  
>  **Artist's Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wolfpainters.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wolfpainters/)  
> 


	6. Part VI: Landing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I've taught you how to fly, and you've taught me how to land.
> 
> All journeys must end, but when the song is done and sung, you'll find it's only one of many. Just one movement in a symphony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This magical journey finally comes to an end. Take your time, this chapter is a huge 32k words because I didn't want to split it into two more chapters.
> 
> If you've enjoyed the ride, give it a share on social media! Share the word. We appreciate you <33
> 
> Happy reading!

✦ ✧ _Make them remember - They’ll never forget_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

Keith finds him in the Hall of Ages. Follows the subtle tug he feels when he breathes life into his magic, stretching it beyond himself in seeking tendrils.

Deep in the heart of the Altean monastery. Along the circular hall, toward the back. Past the fraying tapestries and fading paintings. Past chipped busts and worn statues. Moving through the history of the Order of Paladins and the Altean and Daibazaal Monasteries. Moving through the fractured memories of the titans. Moving past the echoed destruction of the Great Void War.

To the history of the Vastayashai'rei and the birth of Vastaya.

He hears Lance long before he sees him.

The soft plucking of notes on a lute. Rhythmic in their own leisurely way. Calm and contemplative. The occasional dissonant note followed immediately by the correction. The soft humming of Lance's soothing voice, low and serene, guiding the melody his fingers pluck from the strings.

It's not the first time Keith has found him here. Hidden among the echoes of history and lore. He comes here whenever he needs time away from everything. A retreat into himself. There's a peace and calm among the echoes of a forgotten time, and a satisfaction in plucking the long lost melodies of their ancestors.

Lance comes here when he needs moments alone, but he never minds Keith's company.

He's sitting across from a new tapestry. One Keith hasn't seem him work with yet. He sits on the stone floor, back to the wall opposite it. Below another painting of their ancestral homeland. His wing lays out beside him, knees slightly bent, tail flicking in concentration as his eyes fixate on the fraying threads, lute nestled familiarity in his lap and in his hands.

He doesn't look up as Keith approaches, but his ears twitch. Keith settles on the floor beside him. Not touching, not interrupting, but close enough to feel his warmth.

He lets his eyes settle on the tapestry across from them while Lance's voice and fingers continue to pull notes from the ancient threads.

The tapestry on the whole depicts what Keith can only assume is a spirit gate. The ancient places where the veil between the spirit realm and this one are thinnest. Ionia has several, allowing spirits and wild magic to seep into and saturate the land. This one depicts humanoid spirits, tall and proud, features obscured with light and details lost, but what he can see are familiar and animalistic: wings, tails, fur, feathers.

They hold their hands and arms out to a group of humans, haggard and worn. Bloodied and bruised. Pulling them close. Giving them sanctuary. Uniting the two people.

It's their origin story. That of the vastaya.

All around the tapestry, woven into the border and the patterns in the background, are symbols. It's an old notation, and one that the Alteans had never been able to read. Despite spending millennia trying. It's unlike any other musical notation, wholly unique to the vastaya.

So it's only fitting that one must be a vastaya to read it.

It's older than the music Lance is used to, and older than the notation he learned through ancient books and pottery and jewelry that he had in his village. But his knowledge was a good foundation, his determination a good drive, and his inventiveness the perfect catalyst for deciphering the ancient songs.

Breathing life into what was once lost.

Breathing life into their history.

Bringing forth what was left for them. An ancestral heritage in the form of melodies.

Keith can't read the notation himself. He never had much of a knack for music, and he never bothered to learn the notation of the Marmora tribe. And after the tribe was demolished, well... music was the last thing on his mind.

But if he stares long enough. Lets his mind drift as his eyes glaze over the symbols. Touches his magic and brings it into his lungs. He can feel something tug out of him. A silent echo in his ears, breathing through him, taking control of his vocal chords as a soft hum escapes him, adding a harmony to Lance's voice.

He doesn't know how long they sit like that. Humming softly together. Keith's voice an undertow beneath the crashing wave's of Lance's melody and plucked strings. But it's long enough that the light from the windows shifts.

"I think this is the oldest song they have record of," Lance says when their humming fades. His voice is quiet in the stillness of the Hall of Ages. Gentle, as to not disturb the echoes of history all around them. "Definitely older than anything we have in my village."

"It's about the first joining, isn't it?" He asks, though he already knows he's right. He can feel it in his bones when the melody sings through his veins. "About the birth of our people."

Lance hums, fingers dancing idly across the strings. "Yes. The relief of the human tribe. The curiosity and kindness of the Vastayashai'rei. The joy at their creation. The joining of flesh and spirit."

"The spirit gates..." Keith nods at the tapestry, tilting his head toward Lance but keeping his eyes on the worn colors across from them. His heart squeezes in his chest. A strange nervousness feeling like pin pricks at the underside of his skin as he approaches the true reason he sought out Lance. "Allura says there's one nearby. She and the Lions can show us to it. She says it's small, but still active."

His leg tilts, pressing his knee against Lance's while his fingers shift across cold stone, seeking out the warmth of his touch. One of his hands leaves his lute, falling down over Keith's like the brush of feathers. Weaving their fingers together.

Keith takes a breath, stretching his lungs and steading himself as his eyes drift closed. "There should be enough wild magic there, pure spirit energy, to... to regrow our wings." He opens his eyes, turning his head to pin Lance with the intensity of his gaze as he breathes, "You can be whole again."

 _You_ , he says. Because he's not certain he deserves it himself.

Lance lifts one sculpted eyebrow, meeting Keith's unwavering gaze head on. He blinks slowly. Keith can see him absorbing his words, processing them, but he sees none of what he expects. There's surprise, certainly, but not of the magnitude he was prepared for. None of the hope. None of the cautious worry. None of the joy.

Instead, Lance says, with a voice even and calm, lilting at the edges with an unvoiced amusement, "I am whole."

Keith frowns, brow furrowing. "But... your wing?"

"I have one, yes."

"You could have two again. Like you were meant to have. Like you always have had."

"Keith," Lance turns then, pulling away from the wall to face him and gingerly setting his lute aside. Keith slowly moves to mirror his posture, and Lance takes both his hands, squeezing them gently. His gaze is intense, blue eyes unwavering. Pulling Keith down into the depths of an ocean. "Things happen to us, and they change us. We bear the scars we've earned, the scars we suffered, in remembrance of the things we experienced." His lips pull upwards at the corners. "I am no longer the man I used to be, and I am happy with that. I'm stronger now. I have a purpose now. I like who I am, and I don't need to go back to who I was."

"But..." Keith licks his lips, swallowing past the lump in his throat. He feels a burning behind his eyes and the twist of guilt stirring in his gut. "You can have two wings again... you can be whole..."

Lance squeezes his hands again before letting one go. He cups Keith's cheek, running the pad of his thumb over Keith's cheek. He leans into the touch, eyes blinking closed for a moment before he opens them once more. Finding Lance staring at him, eyes lidded, head tilted, fondness radiating from his smile. "I _am_ whole, Keith. I have a wing, and so do you. I don't need any more." He pauses before asking, "Do _you_ want to have your wing back?"

But Keith is already shaking his head, placing his hand over Lance's. He leans forward, pressing their foreheads together as he breathes, "I'm whole, too."

They both close their eyes, neither of them willing to move, breaths mingling and heartbeats matching.

When Lance begins to hum the same melody they had been learning just moments before, Keith joins him. Shakier, and certainly not as graceful, but Lance slows to help him keep up.

With their voices joining so close. Without the distraction of the lute. The melodies seem hauntingly familiar. The harmonies sinking into his bones and vibrating with a chorus that radiates from his core. Humming beneath his skin with an ancient power. A contentment in his magic. In his self. With the touch of Lance's magic. With their nearness.

It's familiar, and it's not.

Like the echo of something just beyond what he _does_ know.

Like the distant root of what he's familiar with.

Like the song of joining, of mateship and soul-binding, but more concentrated. Different than how he was taught. A shift in rhythm. A shift in notes. More simplistic in its delivery. A root from which other songs could sprout, but the same in their core. In their meaning. In their heart.

A joining.

A union.

Two into one. The birth of the new. Joy and reverie.

 

* * *

 

"And you're certain _this_ is the tavern?" Lance asks, skepticism in his voice and in the lift of his brow.

"Yup," Matt says, a tired reluctance hanging on his features. He stands with his hands on his hips, regarding the building in front of them. Lance and Keith stand a step behind, eyeing it over his shoulders.

The village itself isn't exactly fanciful one. There are old stone buildings, cracked and stubborn and strong, mixed with newer ones of wood, standing on plots where ashes are still visible in the soil. A layer of dirt seems to hang on everything, including the people. There's a wariness in their eyes and lines of exhaustion cutting through their features. They dress for comfort and for practicality, and nearly everyone has a weapon visible.

No wall surrounds the village, but there's a trench dug through the earth and lined with spikes. No uniform guard, but those who keep watch.

The people themselves are a strange mix of humans and vastaya, lingering in shadows and following them with sharp gazes. They don't seem hostile, but they're certainly wary.

Not a village of ill repute, but a village tested and learned to err on the side of caution.

The tavern is a sturdy building at the heart of the village. The stone work looks old and smoldered and chipped, but the thatched roofing looks new. The windows are smudged and opaque with age, and the sign out front is done with worn paint.

Matt sighs, shaking his head. "Look, I know it doesn't look like much, but a lot of the smaller villages this far north look like this. It's a safe haven for people suffering from the galra's spreading influence."

"There are vastaya here," Keith says, voice low as his gaze wanders.

Matt just nods. "When you're facing a threat like the galra, you find allies where you can. Villages like these? They're just the start of what we're trying to build with this alliance. And it's already happening, even without the influence of the Alteans."

"Well," Lance steps forward, weaving his fingers together and stretching them out until they crack. He tilts his head until his neck pops, smirk curling his lips. "I haven't been to a tavern in some time. Shall we?"

Lance holds the door open for them, stepping back with a sweeping bow. Matt pushes on ahead, but Keith doesn't pass without a roll of his eyes and a twitch of his lips.

They're immediately surrounded with warmth and noise. Voices. Ill-tuned pipes. A crackling fire. The banging of dishes and cups on wood, as well as the metal on metal further back in the kitchen. Laughter, songs, conversation, shouting. It clashes into an overwhelming din. Smells assault his nose, that of food and sour mead and sweat. Movement everywhere as everyone is too boisterous with their gestures, moving around, throwing back their heads as they laugh. His eyes can't focus when there's too much to take in.

Keith shrinks away from it, taking half a step back. His shoulders rise minutely, and his fingers twitch with the urge to hide his feathers, hide his ears. But his cloaks is far too short, and the hood is already up, ears poking through it proudly. It takes everything in him not to let them pull back.

Lance, on the other hand, sighs loudly, throwing an arm around Keith's shoulders. It's a casual gesture, but Keith finds comfort in it. Wonders if that was the intention all along. He leans into Lance's side, feeling steadier for it. "I missed this."

"The noise or the smell?" Keith's voice is dry and level, lip curling as his nose scrunches.

Lance laughs, arm around his shoulders tightening. " _Both_."

Keith turns to him, eyes narrowing. "Why?"

Lance catches his gaze sidelong, lips curling into a playful smirk. "This is _civilization_ , Keith. This is people being _alive_. We may be fighting for wild magic, but we're also fighting for _this_."

"Matt!"

They both turn, eyes locking on a flash of movement. A woman moves across the tavern, weaving expertly through tables and leaping over others, carelessly shoving people aside. She launches herself at Matt, wrapping him up in a tight hug. He catches her, chuckling softly. "It's nice to see you, too, Nyma."

She pushes back, but keeps her hands on his shoulders, holding him at arms length as she looks him over. Her eyes are sharp and lips pursed. "You alright? Last time we saw you, you were running for a ship to Piltover. Did you make it? Did the galra catch you? We tried to keep them distracted, but they sent a team around us. We couldn't stop them." Her eyes flicker over his shoulder, intelligent and scrutinizing as they slide over him and Lance.

When they make eye contact, Keith starts, body jerking just slightly in his surprise.

Her irises are a bright magenta, and the sclera a deeper shade. Her pupils are slight vertical slits. Enough to be subtle on first glance, but obvious when looked at straight on.

They size each other up, looking over one another with lifted chins and sharp eyes. It's then that he notices a few other peculiar things. Scales, mostly. Subtle. A shiny sheen in the tavern light. On her cheekbones, her under jaw, her shoulders, collarbones, elbows, and knuckles. Shimmering gold on her skin.

She's not a full vastaya, but there's vastaya blood in her.

"These aren't the vastaya you left with," She says slowly, eyes flickering from Keith to Lance before looking behind them. Her frown deepens. "Where's the big guy? DId he...?"

Matt shakes his head, hands on her forearms. "No, he's fine. We got away to Piltover. Found my family while he recovered."

Her grin is toothy, canines sharp. "And now you're back."

He nods. "Now we're back."

She laughs, patting Matt's shoulders roughly and shaking him slightly. "You're crazy, you know that? You _got away!_ Why come back?"

"There's still stuff to do here. You know that." He gives her a wry smile. "I have to find my dad, and Shiro... he wouldn't want to stay away forever. Besides, I can't leave you guys here to fight the good fight alone, can I?"

Her smile softens just a fraction, voice lowering into something akin to fondness. "You're a good guy, Matthew Holt."

He smiles. "Come on, we've got some news to share and a favor to ask."

"Ah," She says, eyes alight with amusement and interest. "Not just a social call then."

"Afraid not."

She leads them through the sea of crowded tables to one near the back. It's empty save for one man, who stands as they come close, moving around to intercept them.

He clasps forearms with Matt, a lazy grin stretching across his lips. "Hey, man, good to see you."

"Good to be back."

When their hands drop, the five of them settle around the table. Rolo and Nyma take the seats with their backs to the wall, and it puts Keith on edge to have his own exposed to the room. Lance is right beside him, though. Arm on the back of his chair, leaning back casually with his legs kicking up to rest atop the table.

The man's eyes roam over the two of them before settling on Matt. "So what brings you to our neck of the woods?"

"It's..." He scratches the back of his neck. "A long story."

"Short version now. Long version later." Nyma's gaze pointedly settles on Keith, locking eyes for a moment before moving on to Lance. "Let's start with them."

"Name's Lance." It rolls between them with a lazy drawl. The quirk of his lips. Cocky and sure. His hand lifts off Keith's shoulder to playfully flick at the string of beads in his hair. "The sour one is Keith."

Keith remains as he is. Arms crossed over his chest. Eyes unblinking as he stares. Ears twitching with every sudden and sharp sound around them.

"They found us at Piltover. Lance is a friend of my sister, and Keith is Shrio's brother." At the surprised and pointed stares, Keith rolls his eyes, and Matt continues. "Another long story. He's adopted."

"So they're on our side?" The woman asks, head tilted toward Matt but eyes on Keith.

He holds her gaze steadily, lips pursing as his feathers rustle with agitation. "I've been fighting this fight far longer than you have." There's a bite to his words that he hasn't meant to sound so sharp.

The woman, however, only smiles. "I like him. He's feisty. Name's Nyma, by the way. This is Rolo."

"Back to the short version," Rolo says, leaning forward and resting both elbows on the table. His gaze flickers between them. "What brings you three this far north?"

Matt mirrors his stance, lowering his voice. "We found the Alteans."

Nyma gasps, soft and slight, and Rolo blinks. "You what?"

"We found the Altean Monastery. And the Alteans. They're still alive."

"No shit?" Rolo breathes.

Nyma shakes her head. "I thought they were a myth..."

"They don't have the numbers they used to, but there's still a few hundred of them. They still practice the old ways of magic, and they're willing to teach others."

"Seriously?"

Matt nods. "We've convinced them to rethink their oath of inaction and rise up against the galra. We're starting a coalition. The Alteans, the human rebellion, the vastaya, the Blade."

"Everyone's coming together," Nyma breathes.

Matt's smirk is infection. "That's the plan. Spread the news. We have allies. The north easter Isle of Ionia is a safe haven. The spirits there will guide people to the monastery. There's plenty of space. We're gathering our forces."

Keith's ears twitch as voices behind them rise, words near unintelligible, but the tone is clear enough.

Rolo's eyes narrow, lips pursing in thought as a finger idly taps the table's surface. "This is great news and all, but odds are, you've already started spreading it. It would've gotten to us eventually. So why're you here in person?" His eyes sparkle with the same interest that's reflected in Nyma. Sharp and calculating. Wild and mad. "What else do you have planned here?"

The sound of mugs being slammed on a table's surface.

Matt tilts his head, and the same pulsing energy radiates through him. "That's where the favor comes in. I think we found my dad." Rolo and Nyma still immediately, focus narrowing in on Matt, giving him their rapt attention. "The galra base just north west of here. It's an experimentation hub. They've got a lot of prisoners, a lot of human scientists, and one of them might be my dad."

"We've been trying to get into that place for months," Rolo says slowly, brow furrowing. "It's heavily guarded. We've never been able to get close."

The sound of chairs scraping against the floor, high and sharp. Voices getting louder, escalating in their fury. An argument out of control. More voices joining in.

"And that's where we come in." Lance drops his feet to the floor, removing his arm from Keith's shoulders to lean his elbows on the table. His grin is wicked and eyes wild as he smiles across the table. "We have all the distractions you'll need."

Nyma looks from him to Rolo, eyes alight and grin sharp. "I like them."

He hears the blow before it comes. He hears it in the sharp rise of the argument. In the rage. In the shuffle of footsteps. The harsh sound of hands meeting flesh as one shoves another. The gasps as the first blow is thrown, sharp and excited.

His ears twitch, tracking the movement, already gone from the conversation at his own table.

He doesn't know what happens. Whether it's a catch and a shove. Whether it's a parry and a redirecting of momentum. Whether it's a dodge and a stumble. All he knows is that suddenly there's a large body hurtling, uncontrolled and fuming, toward them. Toward _Lance_.

Keith stands abruptly, chair falling behind him as he spins. He catches the man stumbling toward them, fist outstretched and momentum uncontrolled. He grabs the man's arm, pulling, twisting, redirecting. He tugs him away from Lance, flipping him over with a flash and flare of his magic to give him the strength.

The man lands on his back on their table, dazed and staring at the ceiling.

Matt starts, and Rolo and Nyma leap to their feet. Lance just stares, eyes blinking owlishly at the drunken man in front of him before sliding up to where Keith stands, pinning the man's wrist to the worn wooden surface, features pinched into a scowl.

The silence that settles over the tavern is immediate and thick. Suffocating and tense. He can feel it stretching. Feels it tight across his skin. The energy buzzes around them. Building and building. The whole room holds their breath. Teetering on the edge. Waiting and poised to fall. Anticipation running like embers through their veins. Waiting to catch and ignite.

Keith turns slowly, glaring over his shoulder at the table who had been arguing. All of them on their feet now. Frozen in states of shock and in the positions they had been holding before Keith interfered. They stare at him, eyes wide. He looks them over, settling on the man who had been the initial target. Who had somehow moved aside to let Lance take the stumbling man's blow.

The seconds tick across his skin.

Electricity sparks around the room.

Keith's eyes narrow.

The tension snaps.

Someone from that table dives on the man who had been the initial target, and suddenly all hell breaks lose. Chair skitter across the floor, scraping against worn floorboards. Tables topple. Mugs go flying. There's shouting, and not all of it is angry. Some is boisterous and exuberant. The thrill of battle, despite it being nothing more than a tavern brawl.

It turns into a free-for-all brawl. Friends against friends. Neighbors against neighbors. It doesn't matter. There's no anger in it. They fight to feel alive.

The release of tension.

The rush of adrenaline.

The melting of stress that hangs over their daily lives like a dark cloud.

He vaguely hears Matt's exasperated, "Why does this always happen?" As he catches a swing, grabs the woman's wrist, and flips her over his hip.

He hears Rolo's deep bellied laugh, and sees Nyma's shark grin as she hurls a mug across the room. "Oh, I _really_ like them."

Keith moves through the room easily. Slipping around bodies, blocking blows, and throwing some of his own. It's strange to fight without his feathers, but there's a brutality and a primitive wildness about it. Something that has his blood singing all the same.

He feels Lance at his back, shifting through his wake. His laughter like bells above the clamoring din of shouts and voices. He catches people as they fall, spinning them around in a mockery of a dance before throwing them aside. He ducks from blows and causes men and women to hit each other, starting up more fights.

Keith grins, wild and sharp. Blood pounding and heart soaring. It's been a long time since he's been in a tavern brawl, and this is the first time where he wasn't the reason. This isn't a room full of humans wanting to attack the Raven of Marmora. This is just a room full of people, human and vastaya, releasing pent up frustrations in a way that, while not necessarily in a healthy way, is certainly effective.

He's just laid out a large vastaya woman with a sharp and rough hit to her gut when an arm wraps around his waist. He recognizes Lance's touch merely by the way his skin vibrates at the contact, his magic sparking across his skin to greet Lance's.

Lance lifts him off his feet, scooping him up onto a long table. He twirls him across it, following after him as they expertly dodge the plates and mugs still left on its surface. At the end of the table, he pulls Keith in close, wing flaring out behind him as he pulls Keith's waist in close, dipping him backwards.

His face close, eyes alight and glowing, lidded as his smirk coils, fond and smug. "What would you say if I said I love you?" His voice is pitched low, crawling down Keith's spine and making his shiver.

He holds Lance's gaze, letting a scoff leave him, even as a smile threatens to rise to the surface. "What we have is greater than some human word."

Lance straightens, pulling him back up and close to his chest. Keith's arms slide around his neck, sliding his fingers through his hair and thumbing the base of his ears. Lance's eyes are lidded, head tilted to the side. His nose trails along the marking on Keith's cheek as his hands wrap tight around him. His breath ghosts across his skin as he whispers, "Be my mieli."

His chest feels tight and full, warmth seeping out into his veins. His magic rages through his blood, sparking as it reaches for Lance's touch, yet feels oddly calm in his core. At peace. Full and complete.

"I already am," He breathes.

Lance pulls back, meeting his gaze. Eyes alight and so endlessly blue. Filled with far too much to name. With far too much than they have words for. Keith can feel the storm within him. The crash and pull of the ocean. The hurricane of his core, drawing Keith in yet keeping him safe in the eye.

It settles in him. Settles between them.

It feels right.

He knows without question that their bond has already formed. Without their permission and without them trying. Their magic is already connected. Already weaving them together. Already binding their hearts and souls.

He feels it.

He sees it.

With a wicked grin, sharp and mischievous, eyes alight with a joy that runs deep through them both, cracking like molten lightning through their cores, Lance spins them around.

And they dive once more into the fray.

 

* * *

 

"You've gotten better," Shiro says as Keith spins away from his strike, wing wrapping around him and flaring out when he stops. Legs bent, shoulders hunched, arms up, and fingers spread to display his claws.

Shiro's tone is complimentary and impressed, and while Keith might have once reveled under the praise, the smirk that curls his lips now is full of a sass that he wholly blames Lance for. "Don't sound so surprised."

Shiro charges again, metal arm glowing, small arching sparks of his magic dancing across the surface. He keeps it held back, swinging it forward as he nears Keith. He easily drops low, avoiding the blow and rolling across the ground. "I remember when you were just a fledgling. You could barely walk without tripping over your wings."

Keith spins down low, sweeping his leg toward Shiro's feet. He leaps away, flipping backwards before landing on his feet again in a move that's entirely unnecessary and wholly for the benefit of his Mieli watching them. Keith gets to his feet, smirk still in place. "And I remember when _you_ were just a cub and got your tail caught on everything."

Shiro's tail twitches behind him, ears flicking when they hear muffled laughter. His smile, however, doesn't fade. It grows fond, even as his eyes don't lose their calculating edge. "Times sure have changed."

"They have," Keith says, lowering himself into a defensive stance and curling his wing in front of him. His fingers tap at feathers obscured from Shiro's view. Loosening them. Steeling them. Sharpening them. His smirk stays the same, but he feels the lift in his cheeks. "For one, I can win now."

He spins his wing out, letting loose three feather daggers with the movement. They shoot toward Shiro, glowing trails of magenta in their wake. His eyes widen a fraction before he steps back, dodging one of the feathers and using his metal arm to parry the others. But Keith is already following up, jumping and spinning to catch Shiro in the gut with his leg.

The man goes sprawling, but he digs his claws into the dirt to slow his momentum. Grin wild and gray eyes backlit with magic as he says, "We'll see about that."

He charges Keith again, and this time when he swings, Keith curls his wing in front of him, hardening all his feathers to steel with a sudden burst of his magic. The shield catches Shiro's blow, and sparks from their magic clash before they both spring back. Keith's wing flutters back down to his side, no longer hardened.

They clash again, and again, and again. Fueled with adrenaline and the spark of a fire rooted in nostalgia. For brief moments, Keith can see the overlay of memories. Of a younger Shiro with both arms, no scars, and solid black hair. He can see himself, younger, just as stubborn but far more carefree, with a passion and a need to prove himself.

Sparring together. Learning together. Improving together. Back when they still had their home. Back before the galra. Back before their world came crashing down and they were trust unceremoniously into a new one. A deadlier one.

At the time, before he had been captured, Shiro had tried to teach him there was a silver lining to everything. At the time, Keith hadn't believed him. Now he does.

Now he has friends. He has Shiro back. He has his mom.

He has Lance.

They spar as the sun lowers on the horizon. They spar until their muscles are sore and their lungs ache. They spar to test each other, to get a sense of familiarity, to ground themselves, and to help one another move forward. He hasn't sparred with Shiro in a long, long time, and he had forgotten how much he missed it.

He can hear the others around them. Moving about the small camp they've made in the woods. He can smell Hunk's cooking over the fire. He can hear Pidge fiddling with her contraptions. He catches glimpses of those hovering nearby, watching them. Matt. Lance. His mother.

He's just managed to knock Shiro to the ground and pin him with a knee to his chest. The two of them are heaving, lungs desperate for breath, but they're smiling nonetheless. He's just put a feather dagger to Shiro's throat when he hears the movement.

Quick footsteps, followed immediately by another set. The rustle of fabric. The soft _whirling_ of air as something cuts quickly through it.

His ears twitch to the movement, but eyes still on Shiro, he sees the moment the man's grin quirks a fraction wider, eyes crinkling at the edges.

Keith throws himself to the side, just barely managing to duck as a staff comes slicing through the air where he had been. He rolls into a crouch, spinning to find Matt over him, staff already swinging down.

Then a rustle of feathers.

A sea of blue.

Lance is in front of him. He stands proud, legs apart and bent. One are lifted in front of him, with Matt's staff caught and stopped on the metal of the gold bracer that covers his forearm. His wing is spread, mostly blocking Keith from view, and Keith knows it's instinctive. He stays still. Body strangely calm despite his quick movement. The only tell to the energy simmering beneath the surface is the flick of his tail.

Lance and Matt stare each other down, both of them hovering protectively above their mieli.

Lance is the first to speak, and while Keith can't see his face, he can hear the smirk in his voice. "Care to dance?"

He sees the glint of madness in Matt's amber eyes. "It would be my pleasure."

Shiro and Keith roll away, scrambling away from the two as a new spar begins. Matt swings his staff while Lance remains weaponless, but not defenseless. He moves around Matt's movements like water, fluid and graceful, churning and never stopping. His wing behind him in his wake like waves. He dances around Matt's swings, blocking and parrying the staff. Sometimes taking it and using it to spin the human around. He laughs as he does so. A sharp and melodic laugh. Of amusement and something darker. Something more primal.

Something wild.

He's beautiful as he fights, as graceful as when he dances, and for once Keith allows himself to be transfixed by it.

Shiro shuffles back to where Hunk sits, holding conversation with him while keeping his eyes on the spar. He looks just as enraptured with his mate as Keith is with his.

Keith backs away until he finds himself next to his mother. Krolia watches the spar with an air of curiosity and amusement. He can't blame her. While both Matt and Lance seem to be taking the spar somewhat seriously, there's a lightheartedness about it that they can't quite taper.

"He is good," Krolia muses, voice pitched low and private. Keith hums his agreement. "I've seen a lot of battle-dancers in my days, but Lance is perhaps one of the best."

Keith's gaze rips away from the spar, focusing on his mother beside him. Lips parted and brows furrowed. "Really?" It's not that he doubts Lance's abilities. He's seen him utilize them many times. But.. he's never witnessed other battle-dancers. He doesn't know how his mate compares.

Krolia nods, a small smile tugging at her lips. "It's clear that he's had a lot of formal training, and he's taken it quite seriously. It surprised me to learn he had shifted his ambition to being a mere bard."

Keith's attention shifts back to Lance. Focusing on his movements. The precision hidden in the grace. The strength hidden in fluidity. The balance hidden in light steps. The calculation and quick thinking hidden behind a smirk and a laugh and a show.

Lance may not wield a knife or a sword, but he's just as dangerous. Just as deadly.

It makes something in Keith's chest twist with warmth. Feeling too full and fit to bursting, soaring, floating.

"He's good for you," Krolia says. A gentle touch in her voice. A fondness in her tone. A strange sort of finality in her words.

"He is," Keith agrees. He knows it, too.

"And you're good for him."

"I hope so..." Keith says, feeling a familiar doubt creep at the base of his spine. Shadowed tendrils of guilt and uncertainty cold as they slither through his gut.

Krolia's had is firm on his shoulder. Solid and warm as she squeezes. "Have some faith in yourself. You're a good man, like your father." When he looks up at her, he sees her smile dancing in her glassy eyes more than on her lips. "He gave me a better melody to dance to, and you've done the same for Lance."

Keith's hand shakes as it lays it overtop hers. As he squeezes her fingers in a desperate and silent plea for stability. In a way that itches distant and faded memories. He smiles, but he knows it wavers. "Thanks, mom."

His voice cracks, but she kindly ignores it. Instead they go back to watching the spar. And when her wing stretches around him, it feels like a gift of support as well as a plea for it. So he leans into her, rests his head on her shoulder, and squeezes her hand.

 

* * *

 

The tension of anticipation is a palpable thing.

It starts in the chest. A jittery tightness that catches on the ribs, pulling them taut. Making the lungs shudder and breaths shallow. It sinks lower, settling heavy and leaden in the gut. Twisting and churning. From there it spreads. To the limbs. Making everything tingle and tight. It spreads upward, making the mouth dry and forming a lump in the throat.

It infects the mind, making the body unable to relax. Unable to succumb to sleep. No matter how important rest is, they know it won't come.

The energy vibrates through the camp in a high pitched hum, counterbalancing the lower, soothing chorus of the pooling ley line beneath the earth. Even the vastaya, who can hear the steady and rhythmic pulse of magic, can't be soothed.

Anticipation makes their bodies tight. Strung tense and taut as a bowstring. Ready to snap, threatening to break, but held firmly in place all the same.

And the sign for the release, the rising sun, is still so far away.

The night is a long one, and while they all agreed that they should get rest to prepare, it's an unspoken acknowledgement that none of them will sleep soundly.

For tomorrow, come dawn, they'll attack the galra research facility, and they don't know what or who they'll find.

The camp is quiet. The fire burns low. Branches crackling and embers glowing among the ashes. Bodies huddle on bedrolls and thin blankets that do more for comfort than to keep out the chill.

He can hear the tap of Pidge's fingers as she fiddles with something beneath her blanket, huddled into a ball with only the mop of her hair showing. Matt lies nearby. Close enough to his sister to give and receive comfort, but not quite touching. He stares at the sky, face pinched and eyes lost in thought. Shiro curls next to him. Face nestled in his neck, body curled around him, purring softly. His eyes are closed, but his tail flicks with agitation. Krolia lays nearby, curled slightly, wings blanketing her, ear to the earth. Her eyes are cracked slightly, fixated on the fire burning low. She hums softly to the melody of the ley lines beneath them. Hunk is perhaps the only one who looks like he might have found sleep, but he's strangely still and isn't snoring.

Keith lays alone, curled beneath his wing. Lance had left some time ago. He had done so silently. Simply pressed a kiss to the back of Keith's neck and pulled away from him. Quietly slipped into the trees. He had assumed he was merely going to relieve himself, but it's been some time, and now Keith has doubts.

Something deep inside him shivers. Something aches. His magic quivers and reaches out only to find merely the barest of whispers in return.

He doesn't know if what he's feeling is Lance or himself, but he's acknowledged that he won't be finding much sleep tonight, and he really doesn't want to be alone.

When he climbs to his feet, no one stirs. If anything, they still. Listening intently to his movements as he leaves the safe little circle of trees and slips into the forest.

He follows the tug in his chest and the pull of his magic. Like a current he can't resist. Like an undertow sweeping him away. He doesn't fight it. Merely floats along it. Let's it guide him.

He finds Lance not too far from camp, high up in a thick tree. Keith climbs it easily and silently, talons and claws easily finding purchase in the rough bark. Lance sits on a branch near the top, rising high above the rest of the treetops. From his perch, there's a break in the leaves, and he sits there, head tilted back, staring at the stars.

His tail flicks and his ears twitch, but he doesn't move as Keith approaches. Doesn't turn to look at him as Keith settles down next to him. Their feet dangle off the edge, and Keith hooks his ankle around Lance's, smiling softly when Lance's tail wraps around them both.

He doesn't say anything, and Keith doesn't need him to. He scoots closer, seeking the sturdy frame of his side and the warmth of his skin. Lance shifts his arm as Keith moves closer, wrapping it around his waist and holding him close. When Keith's head comes down on his shoulder, face nuzzling into the crook of his neck, Lance's head leans to rest atop his. Keith's wing shifts around behind him, and Lance's shifts overtop it.

They sit in silence for some time. Taking in the stars. Lost in their own thoughts, but finding comfort in the warmth of each other.

Here, so high above the ground, where the air is crisp and clean, and the night sky wraps them up in a vast blanket that makes them feel small, Keith feels they've found a bubble of true solitude. A moment suspended in time and removed from their own reality. A side step into a world of their own. Strange. Disassociating. Thrilling.

Lance is the first to speak. His voice doesn't cut through the quiet of the night so much as it washes into it. A wave on the beach. A push across it before pulling away. Leaving the echoes of his words as the air between them lapses back into silence.

"What would you do if I died?"

Keith stills against him, but says nothing. Mind hearing the echo of his question, but unable to truly grasp it. He waits for it to sink in. To saturate his thoughts. For meaning to make itself known.

He doesn't like it.

He doesn't like that question.

As soon as it fully forms, he casts it away.

"You won't." Where Lance's voice had eased into the night, Keith's lights it up. His words are firm, and tone that of unwavering conviction. "You won't die."

"We may have long lifespans, but dying is the natural order of things," Lance says, still quiet, a breeze in the darkness, but with that lilting lightness of his unwavering amusement.

"Not now." Keith cuts through that amusement. A seed of feed deep inside him giving him strength to deny it. "Not any time soon. Not for a long time. Nothing is going to happen to you."

Lance chuckles, and the rumbling sound uncoils the knot forming in his chest. His grip on Keith's waist tightens just a fraction, cheek nuzzling into his hair. "Humor me, then. What would you do if I died?"

"I would..." Keith trails off, thinking for a moment. His leg swings idly with Lance's. Stars twinkling overhead. What _would_ he do if Lance was gone? After all of this, after realizing what he's been missing and what it's like to have him at his side? "Burn this world to the ground and build a castle from the ashes, where I would live alone forever."

Lance's laughter bubbles out of him, and he turns his head to muffle it in Keith's hair. Shivers rush down his spine at the touch of his breath against his ears. At the sound of that deep chuckle vibrating against him. He finds himself smiling.

"Leave it to you to turn an act of grief into a lifetime of brooding," Lance whispers against his temple. Lips warm and curled into a smile of his own.

"You like it when I brood," He mumbles, allowing himself to sound petulant.

"Only because your scowl is adorable."

Keith's gaze roams the stars. Finds the constellations that he grew up learning. Finds the patterns that Lance has been teaching him. Stars that have been here long before them, and will be there long after. Stars their ancestors gazed at and formed pictures from. Designed stories for. Stars that gazed down on the rise and fall of titans.

Stars that would gaze the fall of the galra, and the rise of a new Ionia.

"What'd we do when this is all over?" He asks, voice sounding small in the thick silence of the night, beneath the vast blanket of stars. "When the galra are gone, and the fight is over... Where will we go?"

Lance hums, fingers tracing idle patterns on his side. "Where ever our hearts desire."

 

* * *

 

He feels Shiro's presence before he hears him. The Marmora tribe have notoriously silent steps, something that Keith had forced himself to learn when he was young, but Keith can feel the familiar press of Shiro's magic. Light and airy, but charged. Like an on-coming storm. Like static in the air.

He stands at the edge of the tree line, just within the retreating shadows. The sun hasn't broken past the horizon yet, but the sky lightens by the second. Chasing away the dark navy that holds stars and bringing forth a muted, gray blue.

He doesn't look up as Shiro approaches. Keeps his arms crossed loosely over his chest. Eyes locked on the galra research facility just up the rising slope. It's nestled at the base of a mountain. A small mountain, just where the foothills begin to rise a little taller, and nothing like the snow-capped peaks further to the north west, but a mountain nonetheless.

With a clearing to its front and a mountain to its back, the facility looks well defended. Tall stone walls surround it, corners adorned with towers built with sharp, intimidating peaks.

Despite being a research facility, it looks just like the endless prisons Keith has come across in his travels.

Then again, he supposes that's exactly what it is.

"Are you sure you'll be alright?" Shiro asks as he takes his place at Keith's side. Hands on his hips as he looks out across the clearing. The building looks sharp and ominous in the shadow of the mountain.

Keith doesn't answer. It's been a while since he's used his voice. Having been silent for the past few hours as he and Lance attempted to find rest. Staying quiet as they got up with the others and made their final preparations. He does, however, nod, and that's enough for Shiro to continue.

"It's a well guarded facility..."

Keith lets out a sharp huff of air, voice low and hoarse from disuse as he mumbles, "They all are. It's never stopped me before."

"You've never infiltrated a research facility."

"It's just a prison with a fancier name." He tilts his head then, glancing at Shiro sidelong and taking in his flat stare. The press of his lips is unamused and the pinch to his brow worried. Keith sighs, offering him a small, reassuring smile. "I'll be fine, Shiro. I've done this more times than I can count. And this time I'm not actually the ones trying to get inside."

Shiro tries for a smile, but the furrow of his brows remains. "It's... not exactly you that I'm worried about." He takes a step back, half turning to look behind them.

Keith mirrors his movement, following his gaze to where Lance stands further back in the trees. His elbow rests on Hunk's shoulder, leaning heavily into him, one leg crossed over the other with toes resting on the ground. His other hand gestures vaguely as he talks. His face is relaxed, smile easy and eyes lazily lidded.

The picture of nonchalance. The perfect air of calm. He looks exactly as he might if they were going to a market square for fruit, rather than breaking into a heavily guarded galra facility.

He can't hear what Lance is saying, but judging from the way Hunk bites at his lips, face pinched into a frown and worry lines running deep, he'd wager that Lance is trying to reassure him.

He can see where Shiro's concern stems from. It doesn't _seem_ like Lance is taking this seriously. Not when the rest of them are wound so tight. But it's something that Keith admires about Lance. Something he's thankful for. He offers a grounding balance point to the adrenaline that runs sickly through them as it's left unspent.

His soothing presence is an anchor. His calming smile makes it easier to breathe.

But despite all that, he knows Lance feels the effects of the oncoming fight just as much as the rest of them. He doesn't know how Shiro can't feel it. Lance's magic brewing beneath the surface. Building up. Charging the air.

This is only the calm before the storm, and Keith finds the storm winds to be a comforting presence at his back.

"Lance is..." Shiro trails off, lips twisting and frown deepening as he clearly searches for the right words that won't insult Lance's honor or offend Keith. He sighs, frustrated and defeated as he looks back to Keith. Still worried. Still unsure. "Are you sure the two of you will be alright? There are a lot of guards, and they'll be focused on you. If you need help, I can join you. The others should be fine getting through the facility without me—“

Keith is already shaking his head. "No, they need you. I know Matt is a good fighter, and he says that Rolo and Nyma can hold their own, but they need you. You and Krolia need to be there in case there's too many guards inside. Especially if there are druids."

Shiro sighs, and Keith knows that the argument is over. He knows Keith has a point, but he doesn't like it.

He turns, putting a hand to Shiro's shoulder, like he had done to Keith so many times before. "You don't have to worry about us. Lance is a battle-dancer. I know he doesn't seem like much, but once you see him in action, you'll understand. There's no one else I'd rather have watching my back." His lips tug into a small smile. "And don't worry about the numbers. Lance loves a big audience."

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _The world owes the Vastaya a great debt. I'm here to collect_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

As soon as the first light breaks above the horizon, Lance darts from the trees. A streak of blue across the knee high grass. Blues of the ocean deep and the shallow shores. Blues reflecting the gradient of the sky as dawn chases away the night.

Moments before the first light had peeked, Lance's eyes had gone sharper. His grin had grown wilder. And when he had turned to wink at their friends, there was madness radiating from him.

Keith had merely met Shiro's surprised gaze, a knowing and proud smile ghosting across his lips.

And then they were off. Lance charged across the field, bent low and arms swinging with his stride. Keith is right on his heels, strides long and leaping. Just behind Lance. Just off to the side. A shadow of purple and magenta in his wake.

They don't bother trying to hide. They're meant to be seen. With the first rays of dawn gleaming off their feathers, streaking straight for the large gate at the front of the facility, they're hard to miss.

Still, their approach is swift enough that they're not noticed until they've nearly reached the doors.

He sees the scrambling along the guard wall. Galra soldiers pointing at them. Voices shouting. A scramble for weapons that seems delayed by surprise and curiosity. There's a hurry, but not an urgency. They don't expect the two vastaya to be able to make it over the wall.

That's their first mistake.

There's barely a pause as Lance reaches the gates. He crouches low. A knee bent. One on the ground. Fingertips dragging through the dust atop hard packed earth. There's a flare of his magic. A surge of energy in the air that feels like a storm wind. The crackle of energy and the static of unrealized lightning.

A small whipping whirlwind of air around him, tugging at his hair and his clothes. Feathers puffing up as his wing floats upward. A glowing circle of magic, transparent and blue and wisping.

Then all at once, the surge of a tide. The crash of a wave. His wing shoots down and his legs extend as he leaps upward, his magic propelling him, weightless, into the air.

He lands on the wall above easily. The shouts increase. There's a flurry of movement. He can hear the clank of metal. Crossbows being released. Lance's laughter, growing fainter as pulls further away.

Keith follows after him. His accent isn't as graceful, but his magic rockets him upwards like a crackle of and burst of fire. He grabs onto the stone wall, scrambling the last few feet and pulling himself up to perch atop the waist-high lip of the stone wall.

His eyes dart around, quickly taking in the scene.

Lance is down in the courtyard large courtyard below, a wide open space that leads to a guard house and the main building of the facility. Guards are shouting, scrambling for weapons and scrambling to follow after him. Laugh laughs, grin sharp and eyes glowing and wicked. His wing pulses with a faint glow of magic, flowing between his feathers. It wisps around him like mist. Makes his eyes stand out all the more.

Keith feels the tug himself. The irresistible draw. But he shakes it off easily. The charm isn't meant for him, and as beautiful as Lance is, he can resist it in order to play his own part.

Lance's bow is already out, a quiver open and ready on his hip. His aim is true and his timing impeccable, but his attention is solely on those down in the courtyard. Those following at his heels and blocking his path. He doesn't shoot all of them. Deters them, mostly. Rarely a killing blow. Uses the bow itself to tap and taunt the guards.

He pays no attention to the galra still on the wall surrounding the courtyard, but that's fine. That's Keith's job.

With all the commotion down below, only those closest to him notice his presence right away. Those few are silenced quickly with feather daggers.

The sound of a warning horn startles him, making the hair on his neck and his feathers rise. He spins around quickly, eyes narrowing to a guard tower and the galra standing at the edge, horn raised to his lips.

A feather dagger to his throat cuts the sound off abruptly, the soldier falling out of sight and the horn slipping from his grip to crash down below.

He stands then, rising to his full height and spreading his wing wide. Catching the dawn's light behind him and casting a one-winged shadow on the courtyard below. He's not used to people taking notice of him. His goal is usually to avoid it. But here and now, with the widening eyes and trickle of fear on the faces of galra soldiers, Keith can't deny the vindictive thrill that runs through him, burning hot and fueling the flames of his magic.

He darts along the top of the wall, taking out soldiers as he goes. Leaping from the half-wall to knee one in the side of the head before spinning, tossing out feathers from his fingers. Pulling the feathers back to him as he hits the ground running. Palm hot with the glow of his magic. Flames licking at his fingertips and sparks dancing along his wing.

He climbs the guard towers, one by one, cutting through the obstacles the soldiers make in between. Some he fells. Some he shoves over the edge. Some he knocks out with a well placed blow. He scrambles up the guard towers, easily tossing the galra inside out of their little sanctuary and destroying the warning horns before leaping back down to the wall below.

While he deals with the guards above, he keeps an eye on Lance below. There are more down there, but Lance doesn't face them head-on as Keith does. He drags them along. Slipping away from them. Between them. Mocking them until they make a mistake. Forcing them to accidentally hit each other. Picking them off one by one as they hurry after him in a deadly chase.

For the most part, he holds his own, but Keith throws a few feather daggers down below when he sees someone get too close.

As the daggers sink into flesh and bodies fall, Keith pulls them back. Causing the feathers to burn bright and hot as they leave magenta streaks in the air. Burning off the blood that might otherwise coat them. As they reach his hands once more, he catches Lance's smirk. Eyes alight. Face sculpted for beauty on the battlefield.

He's under the impression that Lance is wholly focused on the fight below, but it's proven just how aware of his presence Lance is when he finds a few arrows sinking into the back and throats of soldiers creeping up on him. Catches a glimpse of a smug smile. A flash of a wink before Lance is twirling again in a sea of glowing feathers.

When he's taken care of the towers, he turns his attention to the bowmen. The galra have finally started to organize themselves. Lines of bowmen atop the towers with crossbows in hand. Pointed at him. Pointed at Lance down below.

Keith charges them, and they fire.

He stops, digging in his feet and using his momentum to pivot. He throws his wing up, magic flaring like a wildfire across his feathers. They harden. Stiffen. Act as a steel shield as the bolts harmlessly bounce off of them. Those that imbed themselves in his feathers fall easily to the ground as he eases his magic and his feathers soften once more.

Feather daggers clutched between his fingers, he dives into the line of bowmen, taking them out one by one. Shielding himself from their arrows and unleashing projectiles of his own.

When the upper wall is clear, he leaps down into the courtyard below. Diving headlong into the fray. Hurrying to Lance's side. Drawn into his presence and the surge of his magic like and undertow.

They fit together perfectly. Fighting styles shifting just slightly. Just subtly. Weaving around each other. Always aware of the other's presence. A flash of blue. A flash of purple. The chiming of his laugh. The streak of magenta.

They move in tandem. Together as one. Two wings. Two bodies. One soul. One fight. Lance distracts while Keith cuts them down. They protect each other's flanks. Blocking blows the other can't get to.

They get scrapes and bruises. Blows land and weapons graze them. But it's nothing they can't handle. Keith barely feels the pain. Now with the burn of his magic and the adrenaline in his veins. The fury in his blood keeps the sting from his flesh.

They fight. One target into the next. Always shifting. Always moving. Wading through the sea of galra like a storm and a wildfire. Cut one down, turn to the next. Dodge blows, give their own. It's an endless fight, but he lives in it. Breathes in it. _Thrives_ in it. With Lance at his side, he feels unstoppable. Immovable. Incredible.

Lance's laughter is a fuel to his fire. The chilling touch of his magic something grounding. The flash of his eyes and the lilt of his smirk makes his blood boil.

Into the fray.

Again and again.

They don't try to escape or run deeper into the compound, nor do they try to cut down every galra in their path. Their goal isn't a clean sweep. Their goal is a distraction. Something he thinks they're doing a damn fine job at, given how many soldiers flood into the courtyard.

He only hopes the others are doing alright.

The plan had been simple. Once he and Lance have caused a big enough commotion, Krolia and Shiro are to lead the others around the side of the compound to meet up with Rolo and Nyma, who should have a good idea for points of weakness in the facility's outer defenses based on previous exploits. While he and Lance draw most of the guards' attentions, they're to make their way inside to find and free all the prisoners. Shiro and Krolia are to be body guards should they run into any galra soldiers within.

It's as good a plan as any, but he hates not knowing what else is going on. He trusts them, and he knows everyone is capable, but he knows better than most how easily plans can fall apart. Still, there's nothing he can do besides his own part. Keep attention on himself. Watch Lance's back. Make sure the two of them get out of this more or less unscathed. Take out as many galra as he can.

Lose himself in the fray.

Throw himself into it.

Let his body take over, instinct driving his movements, waiting for the signal—

The explosion is distant, but loud. It shakes the earth under them and rattles the compound. The galra around them freeze, backing away as they look at each other, look to the source of the noise.

He glances to the facility, catching Lance's eye. His cheeks lift. Eyes crinkling in mischief. He slips in close. Keith can feel the warmth of him against his side. Feel the brush of their feathers. The heat of Lance's breath against his cheek. "Sounds like they managed to get out."

"I didn't realize it would be so loud."

"Neither did I, but I suppose we hadn't seen the full power of that Piltover canon of his."

There's shouts from the far side of the courtyard. From inside the facility. He doesn't need to hear the words to know what it's about: prisoners escaping, intruders, and a huge hole blown in the side of the compound where they're escaping from.

"Time to give them some cover." Lance swiftly plucks four feathers from his wing, holding them up to Keith and presenting them with a flourish. Magic still wisps off of them like mist, and they're cold to the touch as Keith takes them gingerly between his fingers. "Ready?"

Keith lets his lips curl into a smirk. "Always."

Lance wraps his arms around Keith's waist, lifting him off his feet and sweeping him into a spin. He them hoists Keith up a little, tossing him just a few feet into the air. Once out of his arms, he weaves his fingers together, catching Keith's feet in his palms as he comes back down.

He crouches low. Keith bends his knees. Their wings flare out around them. Keith bends his head to press his forehead to Lance's, and Lance's grins as he whispers, "Give 'em a pretty last image."

He launches Keith high into the air, both of their magic crackling as it pushes him upwards. As he reaches the height of his ascent, his wing flares out. Gravity catches him, and he can feel its tug, but for a moment, he remains weightless. Hovering. Frozen in time and in the air.

Holding two of Lance's feathers in each hand, he crosses his arms over his chest. Closing his eyes briefly. Building his magic in his chest. Feeling it crackle out through his limbs like lightning. Feeling it catch and spark on the magic stored and compressed in Lance's feathers. His magic and Lance's, catching and igniting. Bursting into a dazzling light.

He spins, throwing out his arms and launching the feathers. They land in four corners of the courtyard.

He falls back to the earth as they light up, shining in four bright beacons of a blinding white light. He hears the shouts, surprise and pain. Hears the footsteps stumble. Hears weapons clatter to the ground.

He's caught in Lance's arms, spun around. Lance leans in close, blocking out most of the bright light. His eyes still aglow. Icy and brilliant. The rest of his face in shadow, save for where the light catches on his manic grin. "I believe it's time to go, Mieli."

Keith smirks, letting his nails trail down the lift of Lance's cheekbones. "Lead the way."

Lance sets him back on his feet, takes his hand, and the two of them dash toward the outer wall. They make it over easily, leaping over bodies and easily side stepping those who still stand. They slip away in the confusion. Legs snapping against the tall grass as they run. Wings floating behind them on the wind.

They make it to the tree line when they hear another explosion. Follow by another. And another. Deeper. Shaking the earth. A rumble that builds and builds. They turn to see the facility start to crumble. Flames licking up the sides and smoke billowing from the rooftops.

Destroying all the research? That had been Rolo and Nyma's job.

 

* * *

 

Finding the Marmora hideout had been easy. Krolia knew of one near enough to get to, far enough away from the galra facility to be safe, and large enough to fit them all.

Getting everyone inside without being spotted, however, was time consuming and nerve wracking.

Like all of their bases, the entrance was expertly hidden, and small enough to deter anyone from wandering in on their own. This meant everyone had to squeeze inside one at a time, and no one could really rush the process.

Shrio went inside first, scoping out the hide out and making sure it was still safe and that it had the necessities. He stayed inside, helping situate the freed prisoners as they squeezed in. They huddled in four large groups in the woods, each one watched after by Pidge, Hunk, Rolo, and Nyma. Matt stayed near the entrance, waving people in one at a time.

Keith, Lance, and Krolia monitored the perimeter. They kept moving. Shifting in a wide circle to keep an eye out for any galra soldiers that might have been following them. They were the last to slip into the Marmora base, and only after they were certain that the area was clear.

Inside, there's chaos, but there's an organization to it.

The hideout is set into a mountain, built from naturally occurring caves and tunnels. The exits to which had long since been caved in and smoothed over to hide the tunnel system's existence from the outside. It consists of four main caverns.

The first and smallest being the entry way. The largest is the central chamber. Two more caves split off from it. One leading to a barracks of sorts, lined with bed rolls and notches on the cave walls paired with stakes driven into the stone floor for hammocks to be hung. The other was a cave used for storage. Food stock, wrapped up to avoid spoil, as well as other materials that a wandering Blade might need or things Blades have found and left there over time.

Several more tunnels leave the main chamber, creating a maze further into the mountain. There are other exits through there. A maze meant for a retreat if necessary. Secret exits if needed. But only he, Krolia, and Shiro would be able to find them.

They set up most of the freed prisoners in the main chamber. Sitting them along the walls to rest or in clusters in the middle of the large space. The most injured or malnourished are ushered into the barracks, set up on what beds they can make to be tended to.

Shiro takes charge easily. He gathers those who are the most fit and healthy to follow him deeper into the cave system to where there's a natural spring for water. Hunk takes to the food storage easily with a few of the others, trying to determine what he can make for everyone. Nyma and Rolo distribute water and what food they can to everyone. Krolia and Lance set to organizing the improvised medical area for those who need it. Determining what's wrong and what they need.

Pidge and Matt huddle near an older man with wild graying hair and an untamed beard. It doesn't take much for Keith to guess that it's their father. He can tell from the tears glistening in their eyes and their wide smiles. Everyone leaves the three to their reunion.

Once he knows everyone has everything under control, Keith takes it upon himself to retreat from the caves completely. He tells Lance before he goes, and gets a quick kiss and a whispered, _be careful_.

He takes to their previous established circle once more. Keeps moving around the perimeter. Eyes darting at any movement. Ears twitching at any sound. Occasionally stopping to feel the ley lines beneath them for any sign of shadow magic's tainted touch.

He keeps moving as the sun sets and well into the night.

He keeps moving until he feels a familiar presence at his back. Magic pressing against him like the gentle lapping of soft waves on the shore. A hand on his arm to stop him before slipping down to weave their fingers together. The soft smile in the moonlight.

A tug.

A pull.

Keith lets Lance guide him back to the hide out. Follows him as they slip through the entry way and into the caverns. It's quieter now. People have calmed down and settled. There's a lot of them. Gathered in groups around the floor of the main cavern. Whispering and talking amongst themselves. Smiling despite looking haggard.

He doesn't know what Hunk is cooking but it smells amazing. He cooks further back in the tunnels to keep the smoke away, but the smell wafts around them.

Keith spots a glimpse of magenta, purple, and pink as they pass by the entrance to the barracks cave. His mother moves around inside, tending to those who are too weak to do so themselves. He smiles. Pride a bright bubble in his chest.

He spots Shiro across the cavern, sitting with Matt and his father. A shy smile on his lips. A bashful blush high on his cheekbones as Matt laughs. The man with them simply smiles, not looking at all disturbed that his son has a vastaya mate.

He expects Lance to pull him into some corner of the cave. Some quiet place to force him to rest. But he doesn't. He keeps walking, Keith's hand held in his own. Loose, but firm. Trusting Keith to follow.

And he does.

Lance leads him away from the main caverns. Further back into the tunnels. Taking twisting turns through the winding system. Despite the maze of it, Lance seems to know where he's going. Steps with confidence and takes turns without hesitation. It's dark, but they don't need the light to see. The air gets colder as they delve deeper into the mountain, but Keith's magic wards off the chill.

The tunnel they're in gets narrower and shorter. Until they have to walk somewhat sideways and crouch down to avoid scraping their heads.

But Lance doesn't let go of his hand, and Keith still follows.

Just when it seems like the tunnel will be too small to continue, he sees a distant glow ahead. Soft. Dulled. But visible around the edges of Lance's outline. And then the tunnel suddenly ends, opening up into a cavern. Lance steps forward, straightening. He turns, facing Keith as he tugs him from the confines of the tunnel, watching his face with a soft smile as he walks backwards, leading them into the open space.

Keith feels his eyes widen, lips parting as his gaze roams the cavern. It's a spacious, though not nearly as large as the central room of the hide out. It's empty, with a high domed ceiling.

What's extraordinary about it, however, is the moss that grows along the rock walls, rising high above them. A gentle green glow that that pulses along it, shooting through it light lightning through veins. Vines dangle from the ceiling, flowers clinging to them, petals glowing softly, illuminating all shades of purple.

Beneath their feet, the stone is no longer cold. It pulses with a faint warmth. He can feel the ley lines pooling beneath the earth. Swirling beneath the cave. Pulsing up through the rocks to feed the fauna that grows along the rock walls.

Ionia never fails to impress him with its magic and beauty.

"Like it?" Lance's voice is soft. A gentle breath within the stillness of the cave.

Keith tilts his head back, gaze fixed on the flowers above. Wide, near square petals, rounded on the edges. He's seen a few of them in caves before. A few of them near the Altean Monastery. But never like this.

"How did you find this place?" He breathes, voice faint but echoing in the space.

"I wandered the tunnels once everyone had settled. Curiosity and all that. I found this place by accident, but I wanted to share it with you."

Keith looks at him then. Takes in how beautiful he is in the soft glow. How it plays across his skin. How it alters the colors of his feathers. How the shadows sharpen and accent the lines of his body. The curve of his smile. The upturn of his nose. How it catches and glimmers in his eyes.

"Thank you," He says, feeling the touch of a smile on his lips. "It's beautiful."

Lance's smile widens. Just barely. Just so. Pulling more at his features than it does at his lips. His hand tightens around Keith's, tugging him forward and lifting their joined hands, their intertwined fingers. His other hand slips around Keith's waist, pulling him close. Not close enough to touch, but close enough that the space between them is palpable

"Dance with me," He says, words brushing over Keith's lips.

His heart stutters in his chest. Swelling and feeling far too full. And when Lance starts to move, Keith moves with him. He has no reason not to. All vastaya dance, and he's not sure he could ever refuse one with his mieli.

He lets Lance lead. Two hands held up, fingers woven together. Lance's other hand at his waist. His own on Lance's broad shoulder. They step together, in tandem and in sync. They move to the pulsing heartbeat of the pooling ley lines beneath their feet.

They dance to the music of the magic all around them. A humming melody that they can feel in their blood and that resonates in their bones. They can hear it, just past the realm of audible. They can feel it shift and dance across their skin, tugging their bodies along with it. Leaving them mere vessels to the flow, the rhythm, the melody of magic.

The glow pulses around them. Lights up Lance beautifully. Highlights and casts sharp shadows.

He looks wild. He looks dangerous. He looks _free_.

Keith's gaze lowers, lingering on the small skull broach that clasps Lance's cloak in place. The skull broach that holds Keith's feathers. Purple and magenta. Complimenting Lance's own in a way that has warmth and pride and a contented smugness surging through him.

But in the wake of that warmth is a lingering guilt. A shadow of doubt that he's never been able to fully banish.

Lance wears that cloak because he only has one wing. The other lost because of _Keith_.

He may wear Keith's feathers, he may have chosen Keith, Keith feels whole with him at his side, but... he can't help the creeping guilt that perhaps Lance doesn't belong there.

He belongs in the spotlight. He belongs where people can hear and appreciate him. He deserves to live his life in peace and safety, spreading his smiles and sharing his songs.

As much as he looks at home on the battlefield, as beautiful as he looks with blood splattered across his flesh and a wild grin sparkling in his eyes, Keith can't help but feel guilt at the fact that Lance is only here because of _him_.

He breathes out heavily, trying to steady the churning in his gut and the way his nerves catch on his ribs, causing an ache deep in his chest. He tries to be subtle about it, but Lance notices. Their eyes meet, and Lance's brows pinch. Just slightly. Just so. Just enough that it's a silent question.

"When the others take the freed prisoners back to Altea..." His voice starts out strong, but it grows weaker by the second. Fraying as it echoes around them. Fading to nothing. He holds Lance's gaze, though it hurts to do so. It hurts to say the words, but he forces them past the lump in his throat. "You should go with them."

Lance's frown deepens, features twisting into a confused scowl even as hurt flashes in his eyes.

Keith leans forward. Presses into him as he pushes their foreheads together. He closes his eyes, letting out a shuddering exhale and letting it pull the words from him. "This isn't your fight."

Eyes still closed, he feels Lance's brow ease. Hears the soft chuckle in his voice as he says, "It _is_ , Keith. You've shown me that. This is a fight for all Ionians, including vastaya. This is my homeland, too, and I deserve to fight for it."

He opens his eyes. Up close, Lance's gaze is dark and unwavering. Pupils blown wide and glowing fauna making the depths glisten with light. "You're only here because of me." He says it softly. Feels the ache in his chest radiate through his voice.

"Yeah, I am. Of course, I am." Lance's cheeks lift, crinkling the edges of his eyes. He pushes forward, forcing Keith's head back as he nuzzles forcibly into him. "I would go anywhere for you, Keith. And there's nothing you can do to stop me." He pulls back. Just far enough to meet Keith's gaze steadily. Lips pursed tight and humor gone. His gaze is unwavering, and Keith feels the breath in his lungs still as he drowns in that dark sea. "I know you think everything I've suffered is your fault, but I blame you for none of it. You need to understand that I know what I'm getting myself into, and I do so willingly. This is _my_ decision, and _I_ decide to stay by you and fight this fight together."

Keith isn't sure he's breathing, but he feels the answer pulled from him all the same. "Okay."

At that, Lance's smile returns. Slowly. So slowly. It sweeps over him like a rising tide. Tugs at his features, lifts his lips, lightens his entire face. Glows in his eyes. He stands a little straighter. Shoulders pulled back and squared. Head tilts and wing puffs out behind him. "Besides," He says with a smirk. "Freedom fighting is a good look for me."

Keith chuckles at that, unable to stop the bubble of tension inside his chest from bursting. Filling him with the giddy warmth of relief. He ducks his head, and Lance leans forward. Pressing their foreheads together once more.

Their eyes close, and they continue to dance as Lance hums softly to the magic singing around them.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _I don't want a war - I want to be free_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

He never realized just how much he hates goodbyes, and as he watches Lance cling to Hunk while he's lifted off the ground, both of their expressions pinched and unshed tears glistening in their eyes, he realizes that it's probably because he's never had the opportunity to say goodbye.

His parents were taken from him without a moment's notice.

His village was destroyed quickly and without mercy. He didn't get to say farewell to those who died in that first battle for survival.

The rest of the Marmora tribe scattered quickly, saying only the quick things that needed to be said in order to stay in touch. They met together in the cloak of shadows beneath the moon, made plans, and then slipped away into the night. Theirs was a mission of secrecy and quick action. There was only ever little time for words.

Shiro was taken from him without warning. One fight gone wrong. One ambush. Then separation.

Since feeling that sting compounding into an everlasting ache of loss, he stopping getting close enough to people to care. If he didn't care, there was no need for goodbyes. On his own, there was no one to worry about other than himself. Over the past few centuries, he's been far more focused on reunions than partings.

Keith is no stranger to loss, but he is one to goodbyes. And it's with a sinking feeling in his stomach, sucking the air from his lungs and making his chest feel far too tight, that they nearly feel the same.

He stands off to the side as Matt and Pidge hug long and hard. As Matt and his father have their own melancholy goodbye. As Shiro and Matt say goodbye to Hunk. As Lance says goodbye to Shiro and Matt. As Krolia says goodbye to them all.

He, Rolo, and Nyma stand off to the side. Them, with an awkward sense of not quite belonging. And him, simply because he's not sure how to intrude. How to insert himself into this cluster of cheerful grief. He feels restless. Fingers twitching against his arms as they cross over his chest. Weight shifting from foot to foot.

He's not sure how— how does he— he doesn't _want_ to—

There's a heavy hand on his shoulder, and he turns to find Shiro. His smile is small but incredibly warm. Understanding in his eyes as he pulls Keith forward into a hug. Arms wrap around him, large and strong. Keith hesitates for only a moment before his own wrap around Shiro, clinging to his back and letting himself be wrapped up in a familiar feeling that echos of nostalgia.

For just a moment, he's a child again, and Shiro feels like the strongest person in the world.

Then they separate, Shiro's hands still on his shoulders. Grounding him. And lifting his chin to look up into his eyes, crinkled with a smile and gleaming with pride, he realizes he's _not_ a child anymore. He's strong, too. No longer in Shiro's shadow, but an equal at his side.

It's a strange realization, but it eases the knot forming in his chest.

"It's not forever," Shiro says, voice pitched low and private. "It's just for now. We'll see each other again."

He steps back, holding out a hand. Keith stares at it for a moment, letting the warmth seeping from his chest rise to tug at his lips. He clasps Shiro's forearm, feeling his own hand do the same. "Don't get captured again."

Shiro's chuckle is low and breathy. He glances briefly to the side, expression softening as his eyes land on Matt. "Don't worry. He won't let it happen."

"Take care of each other."

"You, too. You and Lance."

"We will."

He's barely let go of Shiro's arm when Pidge comes barreling into him, wrapping her arms around his waist and nearly knocking him off his feet. He has no time to steady himself or relax into the hug before Matt sweeps in from the other side. Arms wrapped around him, stuck between the siblings, he has no choice but to relax into their hold and return it as best he can.

"Don't be a stranger," Pidge says as she pulls away, punching his arm as she tries to subtly sniffle. "And keep Lance out of trouble."

There's a loud, offended gasp somewhere behind him. "Hey! If anything, _I_ keep _him_ out of trouble!"

"I'll do my best," He says, reaching out to ruffle Pidge's hair and chuckling when she smacks his hand away with a huff. "Try not to blow up Altea."

Her eyes glint with that spark of madness he loves so much. "No promises."

Turning to Matt, he clasps his arm. Meeting his eyes, his smile fades. Voice pitched low, an edge of worry he desperately wants to hide, he says, "Take care of him."

He sees the spark in Matt's amber gaze. A fierceness and a fury that he trusts far more than anything else. His grip tightens. "I will."

Their moment is shattered when large arms wrap around him, pulling him off his feet and swinging him back and forth. A cheek presses to the top of his head. "Oh man, I'm gonna miss you guys so much. It's not gonna be the same without you."

The hug is too tight for him to reciprocate, but he manages a gentle pat as the air is squeezed from him. Still, while it makes breathing difficult, Keith can't bring himself to mind.

"Whoa, there, buddy. Try not to kill my mieli, yeah?" Lance's hands are there, easing Keith out of Hunk's grasp.

Hunk steps back, sheepish smile on his face. "Oh, right. Sorry about that."

"It's no trouble, Hunk," Keith says softly, offering a small smile. "It won't be the same without you either."

His chest aches, feeling tight and threatening to split his ribs at the seams. But... it's not all bad. It's not all sorrow. As he sifts through the bubble inside him, he realizes that it's warm. There's a fondness there. A melancholy joy. A happiness that can't be tapered, despite the grief that creates a film over the edges.

Because... while he hates to say goodbye, while he's sad to see them go... he's happy he has them to begin with. He's grateful to have people to say goodbye to. He finds solace in the fact that this isn't forever. It's only for now.

It feels like when he used to leave Lance behind, even while his fondness for the man had started to grow. He never felt sorrow at leaving because he knew, he assumed, that Lance would find him again soon. Their reunion was never a disputed question, merely a matter of when.

And Keith... he's much better at focusing on the inevitable reunion than the grief of goodbye.

There are seeds in his chest. Sparks of heat that cause the sprout of something far deeper than the temporary lull of goodbye. Hope. Anticipation. Growing under the firm and absolute knowledge that it will happen. These people will be in his life again. He'll make sure of it.

Not a question. Just a matter of when.

His chest still feels far too full, far too close to bursting, but he realizes it's not the ache of sorrow. It's the ache of relief upon the recognition that he's no longer alone. Even apart, he's not alone.

A brief touch on his arm has him turning. Looking up as he faces his mother. A tall and proud woman. A strong vastaya with a wide wing span and feathers so much like his own. A mother he had thought he lost. A mother he had found. A mother he wasn't letting go of.

She smiles, holding out her hand. He takes it, clasps it, and they use their grip to pull each other into a tight hug. He buries his face in her shoulder, like he was never able to do growing up. Shivering and leaning into her as her wings wrap around him.

He commits this moment to memory. Storing it away with some of his most precious moments.

When they separate, she smiles, lifting a hand to cup his chin. Running a taloned thumb over his cheek. "There are still so many things I want to tell you."

He puts his hand over hers, feeling his cheeks lift beneath her touch. "Tell me next time. When we see each other again." It's not a question or a plea. It's a demand and a promise.

She smirks, eyes fond and glassy. Her voice low and hoarse. "Until next time." Her gaze shifts away from him. Looking over his shoulder. "Take care of him."

"With my life." Comes Lance's soft reply, lilting with his usual lightheartedness, but somehow still weighted with the severity with which he takes that promise to heart.

Krolia will be diving back into Blades' work. Traveling Ionia and visiting the other hideouts scattered throughout the land. Leaving their story. Telling of the coalition and Altea. She'll find the scattered remnants of the Blades and bring them together, as they haven't been in centuries.

Shrio will go with Matt, Rolo, and Nyma to do the same with the growing human rebellion. Bringing order and direction to their sprouting resistance. Directing them to Altea. Organizing their efforts. Spreading the word of the Alteans, the vastaya, and the rise of Ionian's against the galra plague that threatens the heart of their homeland.

Pidge and Hunk will lead the freed prisoners, both human and vastaya, to the Altean Monastery. It will give them a home and a safe haven. The choice to stay or to return home is their own, though most of them have expressed their desire to help. Pidge and Hunk have experiments to continue in Altea, with Coran and Allura's assistance. Teachings to learn, to help them learn how to speak to and ask of wild magic. So they can grow stronger and help the coalition grow.

With Lance at his side, Keith will continue the work they both started. Freeing the temples. Freeing prisoners. Spreading the news by word of mouth. Singing the tales. Sharing the songs. Healing the land and sparking the flames that burn beneath the rebellion. One that will inspire others to join their fight.

He hates goodbyes, but he knows it's necessary. He knows it's impractical for them to all stay together. At this time anyway. Gathering their forces, building their rebellion, joining the different parts of Ionia... it requires them to separate, at least for a time. Placing them all where their strengths lie.

Separating them.

Not forever, but for now.

Separate, but never alone.

He's not alone anymore. None of them are.

 

* * *

 

Keith had thought that, having spent centuries alone or with only Shiro for company, that being on his own again would be an easy transition.

As it turns out, he's very wrong.

Just a matter of months with people who he's come to hold dear has managed to change centuries of being high independent. He misses Hunk's cooking, his smiles, and his hugs. He misses Pidge's contraptions, and sour scowl, and quick edged commentary. He misses Matt's good natured laugh, teasing smile, and unbridled optimism. He misses Shiro's comforting presence, his unwavering conviction, and the ground touch of his magic.

And though he hasn't known her for long, he misses Krolia. He misses the way his magic seems to recognize hers innately, the way she teases with the barest hint of a smile, her strength and her fire.

He misses them all, but the ache of loneliness and the press of longing is eased by the comfort of Lance's nearness. His touch is steadying and grounding, melting away all the tension that tends to twist up inside him. The aura of his magic soothes the burn of encroaching misery, rocking him with the tides and lulling him, relaxing him.

With Lance at his side, he's stronger. He's never truly alone. Lance's smile. His touch. His voice. His magic. His songs. They wrap him up in a bubble of security, building him higher and keeping him from falling. Keeping him moving forward. Keeping him from dwelling on what's behind. Reminding him that he hasn't left their friends in the past, but that he's moving toward them in the future.

And he thinks that he has a similar effect on Lance. He sees the way his own touch eases the subtle tension that resides in his shoulders and deepens the lines cracking his features. Lance melts into his arms and the touch of his magic, nuzzling into him as the strain dissipates and leaves him at ease.

The press of his thumb has the power to erase Lance's frown, drawing his lips into a smile instead. The caress of his lips has the power to relax the furrow of his brow and crinkle the edges of his eyes. The rhythmic touch of his fingers has the power to lull Lance to an easy slumber, even when his body and mind are wound tight and driving himself in circles.

Keith used to think having a mieli was simply having a mate. He realizes now that it's so much more.

 

* * *

 

Time is told in the rise of dawn and the setting of dusk. The days slip by like grains of sand through his fingertips. An every passing storm. A wind of time slipping past them.

But Lance keeps him from feeling the haze that he once succumbed to.

He feels the days. Each and every one. They slip by quickly, with a strange sort of monotony as they begin to form habits, but he feels the passing. He feels the days. He treasures the moments that make them.

Waking up curled against Lance and beneath his wing. Hunting and foraging for food some days, buying it from towns during others. Listening to Lance's songs. Trading conversation. Trading touches. Walking until their feet ache and then running just to feel the burn of being alive. Feeling the wind in his feathers and Lance's fingers in his hair.

He treasures the moments that make up his days.

The close and intimate moments and words passed between them that make up their nights.

He counts the days in the travel between destinations. He counts the days in the ley lines they purge and the temples they cleanse. He counts the days in the songs Lance sings and the meals they share together.

He counts the nights in the shifting of the moon. In the length of the darkness. In the slow passage of constellations overhead, old and new.

Together, they sweep across Ionia, doing what they can, leaving their mark where they go, traveling where ever they're needed.

No longer needing to chase rumors, Keith lets the ley lines guide him, and Lance follows his whims, occasionally diverting their path with whims of his own.

They find more prisons, scouting out before breaking in. They free prisoners, directing them to the north east. Telling them the tales of Altea and the resistance. They destroy galra research where they can. They wreak havoc, taking the lives of galra and leaving bodies in their wake. No mercy for those too far gone. Shadow magic corrupts absolutely, and the spread of its influence is too far and runs too deep for mercy.

They leave a trail coated in blood. Praises sung by those they help, and whispered curses by the galra. For once, the Raven of Marmora gains some positive light from the spread of freedom they leave behind. And more infamy among their enemies.

The Peacock of Marmora is a new name whispered in tandem with his own. One that Lance takes with a strange and baffling mix of indignant and pride.

The passage of time in the presence of battles, bloodshed, and the space between is familiar to Keith. It's how he's lived his life for centuries. Always fighting. Always looking for the next. Preparing for the next. Blood staining his feathers. Waiting for the thrill to feel alive. Waiting for the triumph to feel useful. Waiting for the victory to feel like he's making a difference.

But his days are different now. There's something _more_ filling the spaces between the battles and the fighting and the stain of blood in the earth.

They visit human towns. Not for him to slink through. Not to chase rumors or scrounge up information. But... simply to visit. Lance walks through the streets with pride, head held high and a smile on his lips, while Keith slinks along in his shadow, torn between trying to look proud and trying to appear small.

He no longer hides his ears. He's no longer hides his feathers.

Most trouble they run into, humans being afraid and hostile, is quickly diffused by Lance. He has a way with words and a way of expressing understanding. A way of showing humans that their kind is no threat. A way of being prideful and benevolent without appearing haughty or pompous.

It helps that the rumors of them are spreading. The more they help people, the more the people whisper of them. Of the angels of death come for the galra.

The rumors of the resistance is spreading as well, uniting human and vastaya alike. Making the people, still wary, at least willing to give them a chance.

Lance takes that chance, and he runs with it.

He sings their songs. He teaches the humans their dances. He weaves tales of the ancient Alteans, still alive and still well. He teaches them the stories of wood weavers and stone builders. How humans once had the ability to hear the magic. To speak to it and ask it for help. He tells them, with a light in his eyes that reflects in theirs like a budding flame, that they, too, can learn.

And it's not just the humans. They visit vastaya villages as well. Hidden and carved deep from the wilds of Ionia. Villages and tribes Keith has never known. Seeing vastaya of origins he's never heard of.

But they've heard of him. They tell him they're sorry for what happened to his own village, and they thank him for what he's done.

Lance tells them stories, too. Learns stories from them. Shares and swaps songs and lore and melodies.

He entertains children. He makes the elderly smile. He brightens up the world where ever he touches. Be them human or vastaya. Be them Ionians or foreigners.

He sings. He dances. He teaches. While Keith sits apart. In his orbit, but removed. He's not one for the spotlight, but he likes watching Lance shine. Where as his usual demeanor used to be enough to deter anyone from approaching him, it's not the case when he's with Lance. The less boisterous humans cautiously approach him. Speak with him in softer and more leveled tones.

He doesn't sing for them. He doesn't dance. But he finds himself telling stories. When asked, he finds himself sharing vastaya lore. Their ancient history. That of the first Ionians. The titans. He tells them the sorrowful tale of the Order of Paladins, how the Daibazaal Monastery betrayed the order and how the galra spread the infection of shadow magic. He tells the melancholy but hopeful tale of the Alteans.

He speaks of his friends.

He speaks of Lance.

He never considered himself a storyteller. Not like Lance. But he's finding, when given the right audience, he can be.

And it gives him the same sense of accomplishment as cutting through the galra.

 

* * *

 

Freeing and cleansing the temples is the most heartbreaking and rewarding thing he and Lance do.

Finding them in disarray, hearing the wild magic cry out, choked and suffocating, hurts deep in his soul. Deep in the part of him that's born of magic and kin to spirits. He feels the cry. Hears the wild magic's heartbeat faint and diminishing. Feels the ley lines barren and scorched.

It sparks the embers and fans the flames of action. He feels them in himself. He sees them reflected in Lance's eyes. In the purse of his lips as his smile fades before curling wilder, with that sharp predatory edge that makes Keith's toes curl.

Many of the old vastaya temples are overgrown as it is. Carved and molded from the earth and the surrounding fauna. Overtaken and made better by the wild natura of Ionia. Sacred places. With dancing light motes and home to spirits. Wellsprings of magic for cleansing and healing and finding peace within themselves. To connect to each other. To connect to their ancestors. To connect to the land.

Without their magic, with the shadow magic crawling through the air like invisible smoke, feeling like poison in their lungs, the temples begin to fall to ruin. Without the natural fauna to keep them standing, the worn stones begin to crumble.

It's a heartbreaking sight.

But when he and Lance clear out the galra inhabiting them, if any are even left. When they take out the tainted crystals that pulse with black, sludge-like venom. When they cleanse the wellspring and purge the ley lines. Life beats back into the land. The fauna, touched by pure magic once more, grows quickly. The air is brighter and fuller, crisp and refreshing on their tongues. The magic a life force beneath them, filling the ancient space.

At the sight of the first flower to grow back.

It's a breathtaking sight.

 

* * *

 

Something is wrong.

The further they go north, they more temples they find on the verge of utter destruction. Land barren and dry, temple itself cracking apart at the seems. The pulsing of shadow magic strong and thick, while the cry of wild magic echoes in a visceral pain.

It reminds him of the temple where they first saw Sendak. And one look at Lance, at the pinch to his brow and the frown on his lips, that sorrowful and righteous anger burning behind unshed tears, tells Keith that Lance thinks the same.

They follow the trail of temples. Finding them still occupied, and scraping them clean of the galra. Each one is tougher to purge than the previous. The crystals are near shattered. The shadow magic influence is nearly all consuming.

There are some days when Keith fears he might fall to it. That it might suffocate him.

There are days where he can see the fear in Lance's eyes, despite the tight lipped smile and wavering attempt at humor.

There are days where he thinks they won't be able to save a wellspring. Where a temple will be lost forever. Where the ley lines will be dried up completely and this section of Ionia will be void and dead of magic.

And then somehow, a miracle always happens. One drop left in the spring is all it takes. One little resistant burning ember of hope that the shadow magic couldn't quite snuff. One tiny trickle that refused to be absorbed and corrupted. One tiny sliver that, when freed and purged of the suffocating influence, can be coaxed into growing.

A drop becomes a trickle. Becomes a stream. Becomes a current. Becomes a river that surges from the wellspring, from deep within Ionia's earth, and floods out through the dried up ley lines. Near splintering the land with the sudden onslaught of wild magic. Making the land grow wild and untamed. As it should.

It's exhausting, but they do it.

Again and again.

Pace slowing as the need for sleep grows. But the temples don't seem to stop. They hear whispers from the vastaya villages they visit along the way. Whispers of a corrupted vastaya destroying their ancient heritage. Destroying the ley lines.

Something is wrong, and that something is Sendak.

To save the temples, they need to take out the heart of the problem, and he knows this time, Lance won't hold him back.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _I will rest when our homelands are restored_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

They're close. So close. He can feel it. Can taste the bitter edge of shadow magic on his tongue.

The temples they get to are fresher. The taint of shadow sharper. The scream of wild magic louder. More galra soldiers left to watch them.

The trail isn't so subtle now. The earth is trampled. The grass dried up and curling in on itself where the galra walk. The bushes and trees they touched shrinking away. The flowers wilting and petals drifting in the wind. The light motes don't appear at dusk or dawn.

The silence is thick and persistent as Ionia's natural wildlife run and hide from Sendak as he continues carving out his destruction.

They find people unfortunate enough to have been caught in his path. Humans and vastaya alike. The vastaya were startled and scared, but heated and angry. They had a better chance of recognizing the danger and escaping his fury. The humans were not so lucky, but some did escape.

They speak of a man. A vastaya who is a vastaya no more. With an eyepatch over one eye, and the other burning with a fury that can't be contained. Wild and mangy. Quick to act and quick to anger. Untamed.

Vastaya nature bends toward chaos, but his is a void of destruction.

He needs to be stopped.

He's so close. Keith can _feel_ it. But he's always one step ahead. Maybe if they go faster. Move further in a day. Keep moving— moving— moving—

" _Keith_ ," His name is said in a way that catches his attention. Filled with enough frustration and exasperation that leaves him wondering just how many times it was said before now.

Then Lance is in front of him. Hands on his shoulders. He's firm and resolute, holding his ground and physically stopping Keith from moving any further.

"Lance, move." His voice is flat, simmering in a warning.

"No."

He continues to stare over his shoulder, unable to meet his gaze. "Out of my way," He bites out, but Lance doesn't flinch.

"No." He moves then, ducking down and to the side, trying to put himself in Keith's line of sight. Trying to force eye contact.

Keith ducks his head, lowering his eyes and letting his hair fall like a curtain. He focuses on the skull broach pinning Lance's cloak. Decorated with his feathers.

Lance sighs, and when he speaks again, it's softer. The sharpness bleeds away. The frustration ebbs back out to sea. But the exasperation remains. "You need to _rest_."

"I can't. We need to find Sendak. People are depending on us. They _need_ us." Even as he says it, he hears the crack in his voice. Subtle and minute, but echoing loud in the stillness of the night.

"Everyone," Lance says softly, purposefully, pointedly. His hands leave Keith's shoulders to cup his face, gently but firmly forcing his head up. Forcing him to meet unwavering blue eyes. Lidded and kind. Lance leans forward, pressing his forehead to Keith's. "Can _wait_. You can't protect them if you don't take care of yourself first."

Keith closes his eyes, breath hitching as it leaves shuddering lungs. He feels his facade cracking. Crumbling away. Falling into pieces and dissolving to dust.

He feels the ache in his legs and the soreness of his feet. He feels the pain in his back. The knots and the muscles that scream in protest. He feels the burning in his eyes from being awake too long. He feels the way the exhaustion clings to him, dragging his body down.

Worse, though, is the weight he feels on his shoulders. Heavy and stifling. A weight that presses down on his chest, pinching his heart and squeezing his lungs.

He closes his eyes and leans into Lance, letting himself fall and knowing he'll be caught. Lets his head drop to his shoulder, burying his face in the crook of his neck. Wrapping his arms around Lance's trim waist and pressing their bodies flush, if only to feel his sturdiness and his warmth.

Lance holds him. Fingers soothing as they card through his hair and shift through his feathers. Nails pleasant as they scratch at his scalp, his neck, his back.

"Come," He says, voice low and filled with all the exhaustion Keith feels weighing heavily in his bones. He hadn't realized just how tired Lance would be, too. Just how much his actions were also affecting his mieli.

Just how much he needed Lance to reign him in and be his anchor.

Lips against the fur of his ear and breath hot, voice making him shiver and curl into him. "It's time to rest."

 

* * *

 

"Wait," Keith stops abruptly and holds out an arm. Lance nearly runs into it, but manages to catch himself, rocking backwards a step. Before he can protest, Keith nods toward a split in the path. "Look."

Lance follows his gaze, and Keith can immediately feel the air around him shift. From the ease of steadily lapping waves to the strange stillness before a storm, Lance stiffens. It's a strange thing. Keith never notices just how much Lance moves. It's subtle thing. Always moving. Always shifting. Always fluidly in motion. And Keith never realizes it until he goes completely still.

And when Lance is completely still, it's eery and unsettling. It's the strange calm before a storm. The lack of wind. The charge in the air. The drop in temperature and the change in air pressure. The smell of rain moments before it falls.

They've been following a path through the forest, cut out by a group of marching galra. They've been moving from temple to temple, leaving soldiers behind at each corrupted location. While their numbers are dwindled, they still have enough to make a noticeable tramp through the forest. Especially given that they have no regard for the natural fauna.

Here, however, there's a split in the path.

The path is an old one. Worn and cut through the trees from centuries of travelers. But it's recently trampled. Plant life curling away from the shadow magic the galra carry with them. Here, however, there's a offshoot to the path. Another, smaller trail that breaks off in another direction.

The general and obvious tracks of the galra foot soldiers continue down the main path, headed toward the next vastaya temple.

The side path, however, is what catches their attention.

There are clear footsteps. Each one is a press into the earth. The grass is burned away, withering and brown and turned to dust in the wind. Even the dirt below each step looks almost scorched. The whole path, however, is withering and dying. All the grass below, brown and cracking. The bushes and flowers curl away, as if silently shrieking in their retreat before drying up where they stretch away. A few cuts in the trees run deep, creating black scorched crevices that look like gashed voids, spreading a dying illness throughout the trees' trunks.

The entire side path is a tunnel of death and decay in the otherwise vibrant Ionian forest. The stench of shadow magic thick in the air and tasting of bile on his tongue. The air quivers, still and dry and silent.

A shiver words down his spine, and he shifts his eyes to Lance.

As if sensing his attention, Lance's eyes slide to his, gazing at him sidelong. There's a strain around his eyes, carving deep into his features. His lips purse tight, all traces of his usual humor gone.

He nods once, and Keith steps forward.

The remaining galra are a problem, but they can wait. Their true quarry lies this way, almost taunting them with a trail reeking of decay.

They walk carefully along the path. Each step bringing a crunch of dried grass and leaves beneath their feet. Eyes darting everywhere, snapping to each movement in the forest, ears trained on every sound. They creep forward. Slowly, but confidently.

As they go, Keith trails his fingers along the gashes in the tree trunks. Careless cuts. Done with apathy and derision. As if he just held a blade out as he walked, careless. Keith trails his fingertips along them, letting his magic call to the natural wild magic of the forest, of the ley lines. Encouraging it to seep back into the trees and heal. Helping burn away the spreading infection of shadow magic.

Behind him, he can feel Lance doing the same.

It doesn't take long before the path opens up, but it feels like hours with how hyper aware he is of the passing seconds.

The trees end, giving way to a clearing that stretches out before them. It rises as it goes, ending an an abrupt cut off, where the landscape cuts sharply to a cliff. He can see the forest continue below. It's not an unusual sight. Ionia is filled with jagged and sudden landscape changes, as wild as the fauna that grows throughout it.

The path continues into the clearing, curving off to the side and diving back into the forest.

The trail of decay, however, ends at the forest's edge. It stretches along into the trees, seeping a dark ring of death out into the grass of the clearing.

But there are no more footsteps.

He pauses, Lance at his side, as they survey the clearing from just within the shadows. The air is thick with shadow magic. A tar that clings to the back of his tongue and coats his throat. The wild magic doesn't scream, but it cries as it's chased away. Driven from the area and forced to flee or be consumed.

His ears twitch, but he hears nothing. He looks out over the clearing, the cliff, the rest of the forest line, but he sees nothing.

He takes a step, then another. Cautiously leaving the shadows and stepping into the light. Feeling the grass crumble beneath his feet.

He hears it too late. The shifting of leather and armor. The crackle of bark crumbling. The shifting of dried leaves.

His ears twitch, swiveling toward the sound

" _Keith!_ " Familiar hands on his body. A momentum crashing into him. Pushing him further out into the field.

Just as a heavy weight crashes to the ground where he had been.

They stumble a few steps, but Lance keeps him upright. They spin together, and as they come around, Lance dances a few steps away. Still close enough to his side, but giving them both enough space to drop into defensive crouches.

Keith bends his knees, feet digging into the ground. His wing flares out, curving along his back and out to the side. He already has plucked feathers between his fingers, crackling with his magic and sharp. The hilt of his dagger rests comfortingly in his other palm, blade facing back. At his side, Lance has already dropped his bags and his lute, no doubt leaving them in the forest hidden in the brush. His bow is still strapped to his back, along with the quiver at his hip, but he doesn't reach for them yet.

Together, they face Sendak.

He's crouched low, kneeling in the earth. As they watch, the grass dies around him, the withering brow spreading in a wide aura around him. One of his fists touches the ground, blade fixed to the back of his hand imbedded in the earth. In his other hand, he grasps a curved blade that gleams wickedly in the early evening light.

He stands slowly, turning to face them. His movements are sickeningly fluid, yet jerky and jagged all the same. It's a strange combination. As if his body and mind are at war. Unable to fully process his movements as they happen.

As he turns fully, meeting their narrowed gazes, Keith's breath catches in his throat.

His instinct and his intention had been to throw his daggers immediately. He knows this vastaya is his enemy, and he knows he has to be brought down. His wake of destruction is proof enough of that. The thought of cutting him down has fueled Keith for days on end.

But right here, right now, looking into Sendak's one remaining eye, he hesitates.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Lance stiffen. Go eerily still. And that's how he knows it's not just him. Not just his imagination. It isn't a fear taking root. It's a realization.

A realization that something is very, very wrong.

Sendak looks worse than the last time they saw him. His skin is more drawn and pallid beneath his fur. There's clear strain around his remaining eye, which is red rimmed and wide. Lined with dark veins and pupils lost as his irises pulse a flat yellow. Dark veins stretch out from beneath his eyepatch, lined red and angrily pulsing. His feature are gaunt, tugging at his bones.

His hair is longer and wilder. Not windswept, but tangled. Matted. Dreading in some places and stuck with dirt and debris in others. The fur along is jaw grows messier, helping his hair to frame his face in an unkempt mane.

He's tall and broad, one of the biggest and bulkiest vastaya Keith has ever come across, but he no longer stands tall. No longer proud. There's a hunch to his back. There's a weight that hangs on him, and a tension in his limbs. HIs chest heaves unnaturally, heavily, and sporadically.

He wears a mix of leather armor with metal plating, emboldened with the symbol of the Daibazaal Monastery, though it's been worn and dented and stained. It hangs on him strangely in some places, askew in others. Like it was once pristine and once fit him right, but no longer.

The blade in his hand is wicked and gleaming, metal stained dark and uncleaned. The hilt curves over his knuckles where he grips the handle, lined with spikes.

It's his other weapon, however, that catches Keith's eye. The twin blades the comes from the back of his wrist, extending past his hand in deadly twin spines. He realizes they're not metal. Darker. Jagged in strange places. Notched.

Bone. They look like sharpened bone. And it's with a start that he realizes they're protruding from his arm, not fixed to it.

He looks worse than the last time they saw him, but there's something more than that. It's in the shadow magic that pulses from him in thick, suffocating waves. It crawls over Keith's skin like ooze, coating his lungs as he breathes. The circle of decay at his feet widens slowly as the shadow magic surrounding him eats away at the natural magic that resides in the fauna of Ionia.

Vastaya are creatures of chaos. They are wild by nature, and they are untamable by design. But Sendak... his chaos is not a natural one. It's an unstable one. Keith can feel it in the way his magic curls defensively, flaring up near painfully in his veins. In the way the land itself crawls away from Sendak's touch. In the way Keith's hair and feathers sand on end, an unpleasant crawl shivering down his spine.

Everything in him, every instinct he has, screams at him. Tells him that this is _wrong_. It's very, very _wrong_.

"So you two are the ones causing me so much trouble." His voice is a deep rumble that crawls across Keith's skin. He feels the vibrations of it in the air. A grating noise that has him on edge. He looks between the two of them, rolling his shoulders and shifting his body. Keith can hear his bones crack audibly, his body settling strangely. The hand beneath his bone daggers flexes, clawed fingers curling. When he smiles, it pulls at the skin of his face, making it taught and tight. HIs fangs are yellowed and thick. "I expected more."

Keith grits his teeth, magic crackling at his fingertips. He shifts his balance, talons digging into the earth. He hears the shift of Lance's feathers beside him. Feels the static of thunder and wind of his magic rising like mist from his feathers.

Sendak throws his head back, hair wild as he laughs. It's a grating sound. One that has Keith's instincts going haywire. Telling him to _run_. _Flee_.

Instead he holds his ground.

"You think _you_ can defeat _me?_ " He looks back at them, grin cracking the pallid skin around his face.

"There's no _think_ about it," Lance says, voice hard and unyielding. Strong in a way that makes Keith feel stronger. Confident and sure and lilting up at the edges in sardonic amusement. "We _know_ we can."

"We won't let you destroy any more temples," Keith bites out, pleased when his voice comes out level and strong.

Sendak's grin doesn't falter. "You cannot defeat the galra empire."

"The galra have no empire," Keith grits out between clenched teeth.

At that, Sendak laughs, humorless and grating. "It's only a matter of time. Ionia will be the first to fall. Merely a source of magic before we spread over the sea to the other lands. Face it. The time of Ionians, the time of _vastaya_ is over. We are too strong, and you are _weak_."

" _Mu'takl_ ," Lance spits out, and Keith shivers from the venom dripping from his lips and fire in his eyes as the word of an ancient vastaya tongue hisses through the air.

_Betrayer of blood. Forsaker of ancestors. Traitor to homeland._

Sendak's smile drops, face curling into a snarl, wincing and body curling as if the ancient tongue of their ancestors had _hurt_.

He leaps forward without warning, and despite how awkward and stilted his movement seem, he's _fast_. He leaps forward with far more speed than they're expecting, and without preamble. From standstill to movement. A frustrated roar slipping from his lips.

Keith and Lance leap away, instinctual and light on their feet as they dance away in opposite directions as Sendak lands where they had been, swiping out with blade and bone, barely missing their feathers.

Keith lands on his feet, dancing away, momentum carrying him a safe distance away. He can see Lance do the same on the other side of Sendak.

They keep moving. Once the momentum is begun, they don't let it go. The two of them shift around. Pulling closer together but spaced apart, still facing Sendak. Their steps light and fleeting, cautious and measured. Each step is fluid and graceful, balanced perfectly should they need to dart forward or retreat. Their wings drift behind them, feathers standing on end. Keith's crackling like flames. Lance's drifting in mist.

Lance's eyes are backlit and glowing, and Keith knows his are the same.

Sendak picks up their movement, and it doesn't take long before they form a circle. Slowly rotating. Eyes on each other. Sizing one another up. All three of them tense and waiting. For an opening. For another to act.

Three predators, refusing to be prey.

Sendak makes a few more lunges at them, and he and Lance scatter. They shift backwards on light, fleeting feet. Ducking and dodging blows.

And then they pull back into a circle.

Circling.

Circling.

Circling.

He can tell Sendak's strikes aren't in earnest. He's testing them. Toying with them. _Mocking_ them. He hasn't begun, and Keith is waiting for the right moment to do so himself. So for now, he strikes, they move away, and the circling resumes.

"Is that all you know how to do?" Sendak mocks, lips curling and fangs glinting a sickening yellow. " _Dance?_ " He spits the word, a spittle forming around his lips as he sneers. "Fight like a warrior."

"A battle _is_ a dance," Lance says, eyes hard but smile sharp, showing the smaller points of his own fangs.

Sendak scoffs, and a small surge of shadow magic pulses through the air.

Keith's eyes snap to the strange pendent around his neck. He hadn't noticed it before, but now it crackles, glowing faintly and _pulsing_. A polished crystal of some sort, carved and imbedded with the galra symbol. A black crystal, glowing a deep an ominous red that pulses with spiderweb cracks. Black and violet sparks crackle from it, arcing like lightning over Sendak's chest. Crawling and coiling down his limbs. Snapping and cracking over his weapons.

He doesn't seem to notice, even when the dark magic crackles up his neck and over his face, dissipating where his eyepatch lies.

Keith shivers. Dread pools in his gut as he stares at the pendant. Dark and cold and tight. Forming a leaden knot. Something is _wrong_ with that crystal. Wrong and putrid and _unnatural_.

Yet Sendak doesn't seem to notice.

"This is why the vastaya are weak. _Dancing_. Dancing makes you _weak_. You don't even fight for your own survival. You let the magic sing instead of harnessing its true power."

Keith hears Lance's breath hitch, and risks a glance only to find the pain on his face to be heart wrenching. He looks like he's taken a physical blow, brows furrowed and lips parted. He stares at Sendak, not in anger, but with pity.

"You no longer hear the music," He whispers, and Keith feels the echo of his realization, of his ache.

"The music holds you back. Keeps you from reaching your true potential."

"The music is part of us," Lance argues, voice becoming strained. Almost pleading. There's a confusion there. A pain he can't hide. But beneath it is that same fire, that same anger, riddled with disgust. "The music is our _magic_."

"Not mine." Sendak's lips curl, and Keith sees them split, blood sluggish and dark. "Not anymore."

"Lance," Keith turns slightly toward him, but keeps his eyes on Sendak. He gestures with a sharp nod of his chin. "Around his neck."

"I see it."

"Do you?" Sendak's voice is a low purr that sends cold shivers through him, spiking his adrenaline. Sendak reaches up, touching the pendant with one claw. It sparks again, black and violent lightning sent crawling once more across his body. " _This_ is the source of my power. The gift the galra gave me."

"Care to tell us what it is?" Lance says, an edge to his voice, clearly mocking. Sendak rises to taunt all the same.

"Our kind is dying, and they promise to make us stronger. They give us crystals to harness our magic. To channel it through. The shadow magic changes my natural magic. Makes it _better_. Makes it _stronger_."

There's a surge from his core. A wave of energy strong enough that through the pulse of shadow and tar, Keith can feel something more natural. He can _hear_ it. The faint and pleading cry of wild magic. Of _Sendak's_ wild magic. Of his _core_. It cries out in pain, a silent scream, as it's forced through the crystal around his neck. _Consumed_ and absorbed. Corrupted and forcefully _changed_ into something darker.

The breath still in his throat. Realization sinking into his chest. A knot of confusion blooms into understanding. Unleashes a wave of dread that seeps into his bones. Making him feel heavy and leaden.

This isn't just shadow magic. This is shadow magic created _from_ wild magic. Not just tainted. Not just corrupted. But _changed_ and _charged_. Wild magic, pure and wild, forcefully consumed and reconstructed. Forced into a twisted, dark mould.

This... this is how Sendak is able to violently take the vastaya temples.

He doesn't just bring in galra crystals. He doesn't just influence the existing crystals with shadow magic. He doesn't have to wait for the rot to sink in and take hold.

He can dive straight into the wellspring itself. He can tap directly into the ley lines with his own magic, driving the infection and the corruption straight to the heart. Forcefully twisting it. Violently and suddenly infusing it with a plague that consumes all it touches.

They knew from Krolia's infiltration that the galra were experimenting on vastaya, trying to convert them to shadow magic.

Now he understands why. He understands the full implications of it. He's seen the destruction.

Shadow magic with a vastaya core is far more dangerous than they feared.

"It's _hurting_ you," Lance says, voice strained between indignant, fear, and anger. "It's _suffocating_ your magic!"

"The pain means it's working. Comfort breeds weakness." He grins, and there's blood between his teeth. "Others have tried it, but they weren't strong enough. They couldn't handle the power. It consumed them, but I am in control. I am stronger."

"It's killing you," Keith says softly, and both Sendak and Lance turn to look at him. His eyes narrow on Sendak, lips pressing into a frown. "It's eating your magic. It's corrupting your magic. Your _soul_. The more you use that pendant, the more it _kills you_."

"No!" Sendak roars, voice loud and booming. Both he and Lance startle back a step, talons digging into the earth. Magic sharpening in the air as they ready themselves. Sendak lowers into a crouch, teeth gritted and bared. "I control it. This power is _mine_."

But Keith can see the cracks in his confidence. He can see the fear in the strain around his eyes. In the tension of his shoulder. Shadow magic crackles from his pendant, wrapping around his body in black and violent lightning and sparks. His muscles jerk and spasm under it, bones cracking. Keith can see the minute wince of pain.

He's not in control. Not one bit. The shadow magic is consuming him. Corrupting him. Driving him insane. _Eating him alive_.

Keith feels a pang of pity for him, but he knows it changes nothing. Sendak is too far gone to be saved. Driven far too mad to be reasoned with. Proven to be far too dangerous to let live.

"I will show you," Sendak growls, body twitching where the sparks dance across it. Grip tightening on his long dagger. Other hand curled into a fist. "I'll show you how inferior you are. _You will see_."

He charges forward, sprinting with a momentum that can't be changed. Wicked blades glinting. Bloodshot yellow eyes wild and lost. Blood in his teeth. A roar on his lips.

This time, he attacks in earnest. Holding nothing back. Rage in his eyes and red spittle flying from his mouth. He charges Keith, but he leaps away, only for Sendak to spin and continue his momentum after him. He swings his twin bone blades and dagger wildly. He doesn't come. Charges again and again. Every time Keith ducks out of the way or leaps to safety, Sendak is there, charging after him.

He's big, and he's fast. Despite his movements being stilted and jerky, muscles spasming even as he swings.

Then Lance in there. In a flash of blue and a dazzling array of light. He's there. Darting in Sendak's way. Getting up in his face. He ducks from the swings and spins around him. His wing swirls around him, fluttering in the wind lazily, but pulling quickly out of the way whenever Sendak swings. His tail whips around him for balance.

He's sharp, calculating, and fast. Weaving in through Sendak's strikes and keeping him distracted. Eyes aglow. Feathers puffed up and floating behind him, misting with magic and pulsing with light. He's beautiful. He's wild. He's distracting. And he hold's Sendak's full attention.

But for once, Lance doesn't laugh.

He doesn't mock, and he doesn't taunt.

His eyes are narrowed and his lips are set in a thin frown.

It makes the shift of his movement from fluid to quick all the more sharp. All the more sudden. All the less predictable. Keith has known just how dangerous is, but here and now, with a dazzle of his feathers and the cold light of his eyes, Lance isn't just dangerous. He's terrifying.

He's always thought of Lance as a peacock. Now he sees him as a cobra.

While he holds Sendak's attention, cutting him off and forcing it, through magic and act, Keith skirts around them. He throws his feathers, cursing when they scrap against metal platting and when they imbed harmlessly in leather armor. The times that they do sink past the leather, or cut directly through skin, Sendak winces but doesn't seem bothered. Despite the thick ooze of blood mating his fur.

Keith spins around them while Lance weaves in close. Waiting and watching and seeking openings to throw his daggers. Some of them miss as the pair twists. Some of them Keith recalls before they land, whenever Lance is shifted into their way.

He throws. He recalls them. He dances in close to slash at Sendak with his dagger, giving Lance a moment's reprieve. He dodges and ducks from swings, and those he can't, he uses his wing as a shield, hardening the feathers for the moment of impact.

They weave together. In perfect sync. Stepping to the melody of the magic beneath their feet. Even as the grass withers and dies from Sendak's presence, the magic roars. Crescendoing into a chorus. Singing to them. Fueling them. Filling them with Ionia's own righteous fury.

Sendak attacks wildly. Quick and powerful, but uncoordinated. Keith and Lance weave around him. Spinning each other. Taking turns in the fray. Keith manages to slowly land more and more blows, but Sendak barely seems to feel them, no matter how much blood is drawn.

They can't seem to surprise him. They can't knock him off balance. They can't slow him. He just keeps coming. That pendant at his neck crackling and oozing the stench of shadow magic.

He swings his twin bone blades, and as soon as Lance moves to spin away, he swings his large, curved dagger. Triumph gleams like blood thirst in his eyes.

But Keith throws. Carefully aimed feather daggers hit the blade and his knuckles, startling him and knocking it from his grasp. It falls to the ground, and Sendak's movement is stunted with a frustrated shout. Before he can pick it up again, Lance grabs it, sweeping into a spin and using the momentum to hurl it far away, into the trees.

But as he does so, Sendak's eyes settle on Keith. Teeth clenched and lip curled. Anger burning in his eyes. He charges, and Keith's eyes widen, hastily calling his daggers back. Magic hot in his palm.

He catches them, lowers into a defensive crouch, and holds his ground. Waiting as Sendak nears. Waiting with energy bubbling and tense beneath the surface. Ready to move—

A flash of blue as Lance charges. A leap into the air.

Keith sees the moment Sendak's lip curls into a smile. The moment his eyes lift at the edges. His charge stops as he digs in a foot, changing his momentum and lashing out with his now freed hand.

His fist catches Lance in the chest, and Keith's throat aches as he shouts.

Lance's eyes widen, lips going lax in pain. There's a moment of resistance. Of two forces colliding. Where time inches by slowly. Then Sendak's blow carries through, and Lance is thrown backwards. He lands across the clearing, landing heavily and rolling to a stop, limbs sprawled and wing a mess around him.

" _Lance!_ "

But then Sendak is turning, already swiping his bone blades toward Keith in a wide arc. Eyes on Lance, concern making his heart leap to his throat, he doesn't see the movement until it's nearly too late. He tries to dodge, but his balance is thrown, stumbling instead.

He manages to get away from the swing, but he can't recover before Sendak's free hand shoots out, wrapping thick fingers around his throat.

He gasps in his surprise, but little air makes it to his lungs. He's lifted off his feet, grip around his throat tight and strong. Nails biting into the skin of his neck. Knuckles bruising just blow his jaw.

His shock has his grasp loosening, feathers and Marmora dagger slipping from his fingers. His hands snap to Sendak's hand, nails scratching and digging into the flesh of his wrist and forearm. Gouging at his hand. His feet kick instinctively, talons scrambling for purchase, but Sendak holds him at arms length. High above the ground. His magic bites and burns at the hand holding him, singing flesh.

But Sendak's grip doesn't budge. He laughs against the pain. He ignores the blood Keith draws from his flesh. Shadow magic crackles along his hand, burning into Keith's skin. Pressing against his own magic that desperately tries to keep it away.

"The weak shall never inherit the earth," Sendak growls. Grip tightening. Triumph burning in his glowing yellow eye. Breath foul as he grins, blood staining his teeth.

Keith's lungs ache. His chest burns. Sharp pain echoes from his neck where Sendak's claws bite into his flesh.

Still he meets Sendak's eye. His own gaze narrowed. Irises glowing. Teeth bared and a growl rumbling in his chest, attempting to leave his throat.

Then a flash of blue. The whizzing of an arrow.

Sendak's body jerks, stumbling forward with a pained grunt. His grip on Keith's neck loosens, and he gasps for air, pulling it greedily into burning lungs. Sendak takes a step back and turns to look behind him. Swinging Keith around with him. Enough for him to get a good look at Lance.

Still on the ground across the clearing. Partially curled in on himself from pain. But he's sitting up. His bow drooping in his grasp. One arm wrapped around his middle. He breathes heavily. Keith can see his body heaving from here. But there's a fire in his eyes. A blue flame that cannot be ignored. Burning with fury and hatred that buries the pain.

"Put. Him. _Down_." He grits out through rasping breaths. Voice still managing to be strong and firm. Brimming with that tempest of fury. Carrying across the clearing.

Sendak's grin is unstable. Lips cracking. "Like this?" And then his arm swings, throwing Keith as if he weighed nothing, tossing him violently to the side.

He hits the ground hard and rolls, tucking in his body as much as he can. But he's still out of breath. His neck throbs fiercely. HIs vision is clearing, but he still feels unsteady. His wing is pinned under him, feathers askew.

And when he straightens, his head is met with open air.

His head snaps to the side, eyes widening as he stares right over the edge of the cliff. The drop isn't too far. Too far for a human to fall from, perhaps. He could easily survive it with a little weightless magic, but as he is, on the ground with head swimming, the drop is daunting.

"I'm going to make you watch as I gut your mieli."

His head snaps up just in time to see Sendak turn from Lance, a wide, toothy grin on his face as he charges toward Keith. He runs fast. Bounding across the clearing. Leaning forward. Roaring. Pendant at his chest sparking. He raises his bone blades high.

Keith stills. Body tense. He holds.

" _Keith!_ "

Wind plays in his hair. The grass beneath him dries up and crumbles as Sendak nears. Turning to dust where his fingers dig into the earth.

Keith holds.

Sendak reaches him. Hand with the bone blades pulling back. Eyes bloodshot. Grin seeping in his insanity.

Keith rolls onto his upper back, throwing his feet up and planting them against Sendak's chest. He digs in and _heaves_ , using the bigger vastaya's momentum to carry him up and over himself.

He sees the moment Sendak realizes what he's doing. What he's done. The moment his smile drops and his eye widens.

And then Sendak is past him, sailing over the edge of the cliff and plummeting to the earth below.

But in the act, his own momentum is tipped toward the cliff edge, and it crumbles beneath him. He twists as he falls, managing to slide down the cliff face feet first, using his talons and claws to slow his fall. Dirt and rock crumble with him, but he reaches the bottom with little more than superficial scratches and a few bruises.

Coughing, he waves away the cloud of dust that had been thrown up with him, eyes narrowing to the body crumpled several yards away.

He's not dead, nor is he unconscious, but it's clear that the fall had hurt. He tries to get up on his hands and knees, but his limbs shake and his body spasms. More black lightning flickering and crackling over his body. Keith can hear his grunts of pain. The rasping wetness of his breath.

"Keith?" Lance's voice, quick and panicked.

Keith tilts his head back to see his head overtop the cliff's edge. Hair wild and mused. Eyes aglow. Features drawn in worry.

Keith offers a weak smile. "I'm fine."

"You won't be for long..." His gaze snaps back to Sendak. The vastaya is slowly rising to his feet. Body twitching. Head bowed. Movements eerily jagged. "You haven't won. You are _weak_." He lifts his chin, eye glowing. Sparks crackling along his eyepatch as the black veins in his flesh pulse. "You will _die_."

His lips curve into a smile. Pulling up slowly. Black lightning sparking from his pendank. Pulsing _waves_ through the air that has Keith's hair standing on end. And as he smiles, he disappears.

It takes Keith a moment to realize it. To understand that it's not a trick of his eyes. Sendak's outline blurs. Magic pulsing. And with every pulse, he gets fainter, and fainter, and fainter... until Keith can see the forest through him. Until he's gone.

Until he's suddenly alone in the clearing beneath the cliff.

He scrambles to his feet, stepping away from the rubble. His fingers move automatically to his wing, plucking feathers and holding them between his fingers, sharp and stiff. His eyes dark around, looking for any sign of him. The grass around him withers and dies, blowing away with the wind.

He can still hear the ragged breathing, wet and rasping. He can hear the low rumbling chuckle. His ears twitch, head snapping in every direction, but he can't pinpoint the sound. The rumble deepens. Predatory. _Hungry_.

" _You cannot run, little bird_."

He spins on his heel. A flash of movement as Sendak bleeds back into visibility. Bone blades surging down toward him. Too quick for him to move away—

A blur of dark skin and blue feathers. Arms wrapped tight around him. A familiar firm body. The press of warm skin. Lance's breath against his ear as he curls around Keith. The waves of Lance's magic, his energy, surging over them like a tidal wave. Consuming and powerful.

He sees Lance's barrier go up. Translucent and blue. Misting gently and giving off a chill.

Sendak's blades hit it hard, sending of a fountain of sparks. Black lightning sparks down the bone blades, crawling over Lance's barrier, and Lance's grip on him tightens. Wing wrapping around him.

But the barrier holds.

Sendak leaps back, taking several staggering steps back. He's hunched. Breathing ragged. Body heaving with every breath. Red stained spittle stains his lips and the fur around his face. His muscles twitch, arms shaking. The pendant at his chest sparks. Black static reaching and arcing into the air. It pulses a deep crimson in spiderweb cracks. Similar black crack-like veins show beneath Sendak's fur. Pulsing in time.

Lance straightens slowly, pulling Keith up with him as his barrier dissipates slowly. Dispersing like mist into the wind.

They stand tall, tired and bruised, but proud. Their wings fall behind them. Circling them. Their magic crackles between them, leaping over where they touch. Fueling each other. Bleeding into each other.

One whole.

It's clear that he's beaten, but still Sendak faces them. Keith understands the look in his eye. The way he grits his teeth and growls. He won't give up, and he'll never run away. Keith isn't sure if the shadow magic will _let_ him, even if his pride wasn't in the way.

"It didn't have to be this way," Lance says softly, voice drifting away in the wind. He sounds almost sad, and it rings with pity.

Sendak spits, hands curling into fists as he crouches down low. "Victory or death."

And so death it is.

"Lance," Keith breathes, putting a hand on his shoulder. He catches Lance's eye, and understanding passes between them.

Lance's lips purse, forming a small, tight smile. He nods and sweeps down low, holding his hands together as Keith lifts his leg and plans his foot in his palms.

Lance launches him into the air without preamble. It isn't for show. It isn't for fun. It's an execution.

Keith rises high and fast, stopping as gravity grasps for him, but held aloft with a crackle of magic. Then he spins. Once. Sharp and quick. Surging his magic like a wave of fire down his wing. Feeling feathers dislodge and fly out. Flames licking at them as they sharpen to steel.

And then he lets gravity take hold and drops quickly to the ground. Landing in a kneeling crouch, one hand to the ground. His back to Sendak. Lance at his side.

He doesn't need to look to know that Sendak dodged his feathers. He also doesn't need to look to know that the fight is over.

A bubble of wet, rasping laughter. "You missed."

Lance shifts at his side. Weight leaning to one hip. Arms crossing loosely over his chest. When he speaks, there's a sardonic smile in his voice. A lilt of dark amusement layered with pride. "Did he?"

Keith stands slowly, holding his palm out and curling his fingers. Heat gathers in his palm. His magic focusing. Building. Sparks on his skin. Essence of his core concentrating in a single spot. Calling out to parts of himself. Calling them to come back.

He closes his eyes and clenches his fist.

Feather streak back to him with lightning speed. Sinking instantly back into his wing. Back into place. It burns and it stings as they sink into flesh, but the relieve of them as they melt back to his wing is intoxicating.

He hears the body fall and opens his eyes.

He turns, watching as Lance saunters over to the body. Sendak lies in a heap on the ground. Lifeless. Still. Blood seeping through puncture wounds. Staining his fur and the earth beneath him.

Lance crouches down, reaching for the body, lip curled as he shifts it. Then he stands, necklace in hand. Pendant spinning slowly in the open air.

Without Sendak's magic to latch onto, the pulsing fades. It just looks like a black lump of crystal. Occasionally sparking violet and red.

Lance drops it to the ground and crushes it beneath his heel.

Then Lance walks back to him. Stops only a foot away. They reach for each other. Keith's hands cling to Lance's hips, and Lance's wrap gently around his neck. Lance leans forward, pressing his forehead to Keith's as his eyes close. He mutters under his breath. Keith doesn't know the words, but he can feel their ancient power.

Lance's hands grow cold. Soothing away the burn in his neck. Healing the marks from Sendak's claws.

When Lance leans away, he's smiling. The glow fades from his eyes, leaving him looking tired and haggard. Keith feels the same. Feels his knees shake and his body fit to collapse. Relief and endorphins from the fading adrenaline leave him drained and lightheaded.

Lance's thumbs gently stroke his jaw. He smiles. Bottom lip split. There's a fondness in his gaze that Keith can't describe, but feels all the same.

"Let's go," Lance says, voice low and exhausted. "Let Ionia take care of him."

They turn their backs on the fallen vastaya, and scale the cliff with bursts of magic and air beneath their wings. They gather their things and, hand-in-hand, they step back into the forest.

Behind them they can feel a resurgence of wild magic. They can feel it flowing through the ley lines. Pooling. Rising through the earth. _Healing_. Healing what was scorched. Healing what was decayed. Bringing life where a void had been cut through the earth.

And taking back into the earth the body of a fallen vastaya.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _Our people are bleeding - We’re going to heal them_ ✧ ✦

 

* * *

 

When broken down into base components, the fact of the matter is simple: the revelations about Sendak, what the galra are doing, and the dangerous unstable power of the corrupted vastaya is important and urgent information.

Information that the others in the resistance need to know as soon as possible.

It's information needed to keep them safe. To be wary of transformed vastaya. To recognize the touch of one. To spread the word and warning to vastaya around Ionia. To warn villages to be on guard. To encourage the urgency of freeing vastaya prisoners. To warn the vastaya fighting for them to fight the offers the galra might make if they're captured. To get the scientists and magic weaves in Altea to start working on a way to possibly reverse the effects.

The corrupted vastaya are perhaps the biggest threat to wild magic that the galra have come up with. A weapon they've been cultivating in secret. A weapon with terrible and deadly effects.

The corruption of vastaya magic could lead to the downfall of wild magic. Which would lead to the death of Ionia and the closing of the spirit gates. It could mean the death of their kind.

The resistance needs to know.

It's of the upmost urgency.

The knowledge of what this means weighs heavily on Keith's heart. Making his chest ache and his stomach twist in knots. And while they don't say it aloud, he knows that Lance knows it, too. He can feel it in the heavy atmosphere that clings to them. The thick air between them. He can feel it in the way they cling to one another. Reaching out. Gentle and casual touches. Firm and desperate touches. Lips showering butterfly kisses that turn heated and needy, full of teeth and the sharp bite of longing.

They avoid saying it, neither of them able to voice the words that get caught in their throats, but they both steer their course back toward the north east.

By the time they do talk about it, the words are heavy with sorrow but firm with understanding. The understanding that they must. That this is bigger than them. That there are things they may not want to do, but have to. For Ionia. For their friends. For themselves.

They have to separate.

The information is urgent enough that they need to spread it as fast as possible. Which means Lance will travel back to the Altean Monastery as quickly as he can to warn the heart of the resistance, spreading the word to any vastaya villages he passes on the way. While Keith will aim for the Blade hideouts, leaving the warnings in the log books. He'll look for the Marmora tribe, spreading the news through them.

The Blade is in the most immediate danger. They have spies inside the galra forces, and they work the closest with trying to infiltrate and sabotage. They need to know what could happen. What they might find. What to look for.

It's urgent.

This is bigger than them.

They need to go their separate ways for the good of their people and their homeland. For their mission.

No matter how much they don't want to. No matter how much the thought of it makes Keith's heart squeeze and his breath come short.

He clings to Lance in the following days. Reaches out for him only to find Lance already reaching back. Memorizes the touch of his skin. The taste of his magic on his tongue. The feeling of his feathers. The warmth of his embrace.

He loses himself in Lance, and for once, wishes that time would stop. Would slow. Would freeze and let these moments last a lifetime.

They have to separate, and they know that. They've accepted the inevitable. They square their shoulders and lift their chins high. They're warriors and vastaya. They're strong enough to survive. The time apart will be nothing in the grand scheme of things.

But that doesn't make the ache fade.

It doesn't stop them from getting as much of each other as they can before their paths diverge.

 

* * *

 

 

The water is cold as he steps into it, but he enjoys the chill. It's sharp and refreshing. It cuts through the fog of melancholy clouding his mind. Brings his body into sharp relief. Makes him hyper aware of here and now. This moment.

Shivers rush down his spine and goosebumps rise on his flesh, but he takes another step. And another. Wading deeper into the water. His magic crackles in his core like a low lit fire, sending surges of warmth throughout his body to take the edge off the chill.

With every step, he pushes his thoughts away. Thoughts of tomorrow. Worries of what the days will bring. All the things that may or may not come to pass. All the things he may or may not face. The innate fear of being alone once more.

He pushes it aside. Letting the fog of worry lift. Focusing on the chill against his skin. The slick rocks beneath his feet. The bite of cold as his hips submerge. The gentle lap of waves against his stomach. The gentle push of current against his thighs.

He focuses on the cold sensations. The sharp sensations. He focuses on right here and right now.

He lets himself live in this moment, and only for this moment.

He wades into the pond. Moving toward where Lance waits. Eyes locked on his mate. Feeling a strange fluttering in his chest that he hopes never fades.

The waterfall is a beautiful place. One that his mother had told him about. A favorite spot of her and his father. A tall waterfall, cascading from a mountain cliffside, falling from the river above to the gathered pond below. A large pond. One whose surface is always shifting and rippling with small waves from the crashing waterfall, lapping gently at the stones that line its edges.

The water continues into an underground river system, leaving the pond, from the outside, looking like a strange bottomless pool. Eternally collecting more water, yet never expanding.

The ley lines pool beneath it. Collecting and colliding in a collision of different lines. They spiral and still, gathering in the wellspring for only moments before the magic spreads outwards in new ley lines, following the flow of the underground rivers.

It's a magical place.

Secluded by thick trees and heavy fauna. Vines and flowers crawling up the side of the cliff. Water falling and casting rainbows where the light catches. Light motes dance in the sun with the glow bugs. Spirits hide in the thick undergrowth around them, playful and curious. Mist fills the air, obscuring the reality of the landscape and pushing them toward a dream.

Secluded. Peaceful. Surrounded by nothing but the roar of the falls and the magic of Ionia.

Together alone.

Lance stands waist deep in the water. Arms stretched lazily to the sides. Fingertips and nails dancing lightly across the surface of the water. His wing drifts out behind him. Floating in the water. Feathers giving more shades and depths to the crystalline waters. His skin shines bronze in the approaching twilight.

He stands tall, facing the waterfall. His back is lean and strong. Narrowed at the hips and broad at the shoulders. Sculpted from clay and feathered from the sea and sky.

He's beautiful.

He's ethereal.

He's _magic_.

He doesn't turn as Keith approaches. He waits patiently. And Keith knows he's waiting. Specifically for him. He knows by the way Lance's ears twitch. By the way he leans instantly into Keith's touch when he reaches out, running a hand along the back of his shoulders, down his spine, along his trim waist.

Lance hums. Soft and gentle. Barely audible over the roar of the falls, but vibrating through the air between them all the same.

Keith lets his hands trail along Lance's wing. Fingers gentle over the feathers. Nails dipping between them. Even in the water they remain soft. Rounded. Fluffier than his own. How many times had he dreamed and longed to touch Lance's feathers? Now he can. Now he does.

As he runs his fingers along Lance's wing, he sees the man shiver. Sees the goosebumps rise on his skin. He shifts his wing aside, slipping into the open space to press his chest to that beautiful back.

Lance's skin is cold to the touch, but Keith is warm. His magic keeps him that way. He presses that warmth into Lance. Sharing it with him. Wraps his arms around Lance's waist and holds him tight. Leans his head against Lance's temple and closes his eyes. Breathes him in.

Lance leans into his embrace. Hands coming to rest overtop Keith's. Arms wrapping around his arms. Holding on tight as he melts into him.

"I wish I could go with you," Keith mumbles, nose pressed to his temple, lips moving against his ear.

Lance heaves a heavy breath. "I know." Nails bite into his arms, and he knows Lance wishes, too.

"How will you find me again?" Keith's arms tighten, voice dropping in an attempt to hide the waver. The worry he's afraid to voice. He knows he can barely be heard over the falls, but with his lips to Lance's ear, he understands anyway.

"I won't." There's a lilt to Lance's voice. A gentleness. A solid certainty that Keith latches onto for stability. Lance's grip loosens, running his fingertips lightly over Keith's arms instead. "You will."

He pulls away, and Keith relaxes his arms to let him. But he doesn't go far. Merely turns around in his embrace. Leans in until they're hip to hip and chest to chest. Drags his hands up Keith's bare chest, nails dragging teasingly, until his fingers sink into Keith's hair. His arms wrap around Lance tight. Hands splayed on his back. Holding him close.

"How will I do that?" He asks, eyes focused on the sly curl of Lance's smile. Moving his gaze up to meet dark, lidded eyes. Eyes that burn with a hunger and a need that Keith can feel blooming in gut.

"Just follow the music." Lance leans forward, lips brushing against Keith's as he speaks. Breath warm and temping. Mouth soft and pliable. Coy and teasing. Cold to the touch, but oh so inviting. His tongue darts out, licking playfully along Keith's upper lip. "You are my mieli. We'll always find each other. Just listen for our melody."

Lance's lips on his are cold, but they burn like fire. Warming him from the inside out. Desire blooming in his chest. Need uncoiling and writhing, demanding.

As the sunsets on the private waterfall grove, they make love in the wild, thick grass.

Keith lays Lance out below him, beautiful and bare and free. Skin glistening and warmed in the sunset hues. Claims his lips with biting, bruising kisses. Tears at his lips and then soothes the pain away. Chases his needy gasps. Whines as Lance's fingers coil tight in his hair, nails biting deep into the skin of his back. His teeth find Lance's ears, his neck, his collarbones, his chest.

He leaves his marks on Lance's body, bold and dark and deep. Breath heaving and body singing as Lance does the same to him. As Lance claims him just as fiercely. As Lance leaves marks on his flesh that will be slow to fade, leaving him with an ache to remember him by. An ache he'll treasure.

He opens Lance up gently. Easily. Careful with his claws. Leans back to watch him writhe and twist. Back arching off the ground. Fingers twisting into the grass.

With Lance's legs wrapped around his hips, his tail wrapping around his thigh, his arms wrapping around his shoulders, Keith sinks into him. Into his tight heat. Into his core.

The move together. Move as one. Hips wild. Breaths labored and heaving. The sounds ripping from their throats and whines dripping from their lips those of chaos. Primitive in nature. Reckless. Wild.

Lost in pleasure. Lost in each other.

Lost beneath the glow bugs and the sinking twilight.

Lost beneath the stars.

They take what they can from each other. Greedy. Needy. Desperate. Pleading with time to stay still. Wishing this moment could last forever. Stretching it. Reveling in it.

And when exhaustion takes hold, bodies aching and marred, they lay side by side beneath the stars. Lulled by the roar of the falls and the gentle lap of the waves. They touch each other gently. Over bruises and bite marks and scratches. They sort out each other's wings. Reverently grooming feathers and fitting them back into place. They run fingertips over each other's bodies. Committing every dip and curve and plain to memory.

With wings wrapped around each other for warmth, they lie close in each other's embrace. Lost to the night and fearing the dawn. Lance's fingers in his hair, and his fingers tracing Lance's spine.

The dawn finds them slowly. Creeping over the horizon and chasing away the shadows. Casting the world back into light. Bleeding the colors back into Ionia.

Bringing the cold touch of reality with it.

As the first rays of light break across the sky. Air still cold despite the light that touches their skin. They say their goodbyes. They hold each other as the sun rises. They whisper reassurances into each other's hair. They exchange sweet, lingering kisses.

And then they step away.

Lance with a small smile and sorrow in his eyes.

Keith with pursed lips and eyes that burn.

They go their separate ways, walking backwards to hold each other's gaze until their forced to turn. Until they're out of sight. Until the only thing Keith has left is the ache of Lance's touch buried in his skin and the echo of his goodbyes in his ears.

Still, he finds himself turning to look back.

But Lance is gone.

And he's alone.

 

* * *

 

 

Determination is a strong word

It's not so much determination that drives him forward as it is hope.

It burns like a beacon beneath his skin. A heat in his veins. A pulse that keeps his soul alive. It drives him forward. Onward. One step at a time. Keep going. Never stop.

When he stops, the hope isn't snuffed out, but it _is_ restless. It's an anticipation that crawls deep inside him, burrowing in the marrow of his bones and creeping in the spaces between his ribs. Anticipation that feels almost like adrenaline. Sweeter on his tongue. More lasting. But just as restless.

An aimless energy that cries for an outlet. One that makes his heart beat faster even in stillness. Even in silence. At the mere thought of Lance's name. At a harmless memory drifting to the surface like smoke. His heart beats. It aches. It sings.

He's not determined to see Lance again. He _knows_ he will.

Knows it like he knows the sun will rise and it will set.

It's a knowledge that's firm. Set into his heart. Pulsing through his veins. Resonating in his bones. He _will_ see Lance again. He knows it. It's not a matter of _if_ , but a matter of _when_.

He hopes it'll be soon.

He rises every day with the hope that this will be the day he hears their melody. He goes to sleep every night hoping the dawn will bring reunion. Anticipation coils tight inside him, writhing and crawling.

 _Waiting_.

Keith doesn't like waiting, but he's good at it. He knows that it'll be worth it in the end. No matter how cold nights get on his own. No matter how bland food tastes. No matter how silent the landscape seems. No mater how much he longs for Lance's warmth and the lilt of his voice.

He knows it'll be worth it. He knows Lance is worth it.

Loneliness is temporary. He may be alone right now, but he won't be alone forever.

It's a silver light that lines his days and keeps him company during the nights.

 

* * *

 

 

✦ ✧ _Nature bends towards chaos - Give in or break_ ✧ ✦  


* * *

 

 

Days blend into nights, and night bleed into days.

He finds the Blades' hideouts, systematically making his way through Ionia. He leaves the information about the galra's experiments in the log books, along with information about the rebellion if it's not already there. He sees some notes from familiar names, and some unfamiliar. He sees his mother's a few times. He sees Shrio's.

Their paths cross. Surprise bubbling into joy. Their union is only brief. Just a night. Just a day. Catching up. Trading stories. They tell Keith of their work, and Keith warns them about the galra. Then they go their separate ways. Their paths destined to diverge again.

The moments together are too short, but he cherishes them all the same. And the goodbyes are easier. The realization that he's no longer alone seeps in slowly. Steadily. Settling between his ribs like a caught ember of warmth. Igniting a fire that burns through his veins.

He's not alone.

He has friends and family and allies all over Ionia.

Separate, but not alone.

Paths diverged, but destined to cross once more. Again and again. Intertwined indefinitely. It makes moving forward easier. He cherishes the memories of the past, holds them close to his heart, cradled in reverie, but they don't hold him back. He doesn't need to look back. He can face forward confidently. Knowing that somewhere along this path, he'll find them again. All of them.

It's not a matter of _if_. It's simply a matter of _when_.

The anticipation is intoxicating. The hope is comforting. Keeping his steps light but grounded. Keeping him going. One step. Then another. Ever forward.

 

* * *

 

 

Time begins to blur. A haze settles around him. A haze created from the monotony of his actions. Travel. Run. Find a temple. Leave a message. Move on.

Again.

And again.

It's repetitive, and he lacks the uplifting energy Lance brings with him. The excitement that's left in the wake of his laugh. In the radiance of his smile. Just being with him brought a level of anticipation to each day. An anticipation of the unknown. A thirst for adventure that Lance spur on in him.

Without him, things seem quieter. Stiller. Still alive and beautiful, but Keith himself feels dulled around the edges.

He used to find solace in the quiet. Now he finds is disheartening.

He used to revel in the heat of battle and the adrenaline of combat. It used to make him feel alive, and he sought that thrill like a man dying of thirst. Now it's just another motion to go through. He makes quick work of the galra soldiers he crosses paths with. He misses Lance's sharp grin and taunting laugh as he swirled in waves of blue across the battlefield.

While he still doesn't shy from fights with the galra, he no longer fights with villagers. The humans he passes still whisper of him. As a vastaya. As an oddity. Some whisper of him as the Raven of Marmora.

But there's been a shift.

Where the name used to instill fear that twisted into action. Where it used to cause anger where he went and brought him nothing but more fights. More arguments. More bloodshed.

His name no longer carries fear.

It carries a strange mix of reverence, awe, and wary curiosity. They still eye him suspiciously, but not hostilely. He's not attacked when he walks the streets of human settlements. He doesn't hide as he used to. He's learned to walk proudly. Indifferently. And he's surprised that no harm comes to him, even without Lance's silver tongue.

The humans whisper of the Raven of Marmora. A leader amongst the rebellion. A vastaya fighting back against the spread of galra. A vastaya who keeps both vastaya and humankind safe. A vastaya who found the ancient Alteans.

Some people smile hesitantly at him. Some actually speak with him. Wary, but friendly. Certainly not unkind. They offer to buy him food and drink, and he tells them stories. He's not the story weaver that Lance is. He doesn't sing or dance. But he tells them what he knows. He answers their questions.

He makes them _care_.

Children run up to him. They're the most open and blunt with their questions. He finds he doesn't mind. They're curious about his feathers. His wing. His ears. He shows them little feats of magic. Enough to make their eyes grow wide and their smiles grow. Enough to interest them. Enough to plant a seed of reverence for his kind.

There's a shift in how he's received in cities.

It's strange, but he finds he doesn't mind.

 

* * *

 

 

Time slips into a blurred haze. Familiar, yet different. Days slip through his fingers like grains of sand. Piling at his feet. Leaving a trail in his wake. Each one indistinguishable from the next. Disappearing into one another.

The sun is an endless cycle.

The stars shift in the night sky.

He no longer counts the days in seconds. Minutes and hours feel no different. Days bleed into weeks. Weeks become months. He's stopping counting the days since he and Lance parted. They lose meaning. They blend together in a stretching period of silence and stillness.

He can tell the passage of time in the ache of his heart. In the fog around his memories. In the heavy weight he carries within his chest. A hole carved through him. Distinctly Lance shaped. Distinctly hollow. Distinctly numb and burning, all at once.

He's familiar with the haze of time. When nothing of his daily life is enough to cling to, so the line that fracture time begin to blur and shift.

He's spent centuries in this fog, but this time it feels different.

It doesn't feel so empty. It doesn't feel so cold.

He doesn't feel so helpless. He doesn't feel so alone.

It isn't a desolation that fills his chest and thrives in the space between his bones. It's the burning of hope. The persistence of it. Unwilling to die. Consuming, but not nearly as heavy.

His hope no longer blazes, but the light doesn't die. It still burns. Close to his heart. A warmth that won't leave him. A light to guide him. Something to hold onto. Something to keep him going.

He doesn't know when he'll see Lance again. He only knows that he will.

Until then, his days will bleed together. Slip through his hands like sand. Left behind to create the path on which he walks. And every step brings him closer. To Lance. To reunion. To the day he can't foresee, but knows lies ahead.

It's only a matter of time.

And time is something he has plenty of. Something that he can pass through with little resistance. Burning through the days and leaving them to cinder. Ashe in the wind at his back. He'll burn through the days. Burn through time. Pass each day in a blur.

Until he sees him again.

Until they're together again.

He doesn't know how he'll find Lance, but it strangely doesn't worry him. Lance had been so confident that he would. That Keith would hear his song. _Their_ song. And while Keith isn't sure how. Isn't sure when. What is sure of is this: Lance.

He trusts Lance. Trusts him wholly and unconditionally.

If Lance believes without a doubt that Keith will find him, then Keith has no reason to doubt it himself.

He'll find Lance.

He isn't sure how, but he knows that he will.

 

* * *

 

In a lot of ways, he still prefers to travel by himself. Passing his days in a blur of movement through the forests, across rivers of water and grass, passing through the chaotic landscape of Ionia. Time moves faster then. When he can truly lose himself to the fog, embrace the blur, and speed up the passage of the sun in the sky.

Find a hideout. Leave the message.

See the galra. Leave a trail of blood that soaks back into the earth.

Run.

Run.

 _Run_.

An every surge onward. Not so much searching as he is waiting. Doing as he must. Trusting he'll see Lance again. Having faith that the man is alright. He knows he can take care of himself.

Still, he's gotten used to the presence of others. And as blissfully void as the silence is. As much as he appreciates the slipping of time. As much as he doesn't mind lying in groves above wellsprings, staring at the stars and singing the songs beneath his breath as the wild magic harmonizes with his voice. As much as he doesn't mind passing the nights dancing to the songs of Ionia, eyes closed, moving instinctively, imagining Lance is there, twirling around him, just out of reach.

As much as he doesn't mind the solitude, he also craves companionship.

It's a new craving, a strange one, but one he sates all the same.

Whenever the mood particularly strikes, he steers his course toward human settlements. He finds vastaya villages. He finds travelers on the road and walks with them for a time. He's not great at communicating with strangers. He's not fluent in conversation. But he's getting better, and he finds when he's not openly hostile or defensive, people are more willing to be patient with him.

He thinks Lance would be proud of him.

He looks forward to showing him how far he's come.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time he hears the whispers, he thinks they're about him.

A feathered vastaya, they say. The humans don't know the words for their kinds. Their tribe names. There are several tribes who bear feathers.

He hears the whispers drift across human towns. Across the lips of travelers. Murmured amongst vastaya children as they run past him, playing their games as he spreads words of warning to their elders.

A feathered vastaya the humans say. A Lhotlan, the vastaya say. Traveling Ionia, they say. A wanderer. A drifter. Influence spreading from north to south, east to west. Well known, they say. Everyone knows of him. He's spreading word of the galra, their intentions, stories of the danger they pose to all Ionians. He tells stories of the long lost Alteans. He whispers of the birth of a rebellion. He weaves tales of a fight, of an alliance, of Ionians brought together to save their common homeland. He foretells a revitalization of the old ways, of vastaya traditions and of humans learning to hear the magic once more.

Keith lets the whispers drift past him. Interesting, but inconsequential. He thinks they're of him. Of the Raven of Marmora.

He's doing all the things they speak of. He's known enough to be of interest. He's seen the curiosity and awe in the eyes of those he meets.

So he pays the whispers little mind.

Until he hears whispers of the vastaya's voice. Of the songs he sings, woven together from human and vastaya traditions. Sea shanties with elements of vastaya melodies. Ancient songs sung in a language that no one understands, but can all feel deep inside themselves. Strange and uplifting. The familiar echo of a time long past.

They whisper of his dancing.

They whisper of his smile.

They whisper of feathers. Blue as the shades of the sky as the sun rises, some say. Blue as the depths of the sea and the rising of a storm, say others.

They whisper of skin like bronze and eyes like gemstones.

They whisper of the strange collection of bird skulls that adorn his clothing, one of which bears feathers so different from his own.

They whisper of the vastaya looking for someone. Waiting for someone. Asking all he meet to spread the tale of his passage. To share the stories of his songs.

And that small ember of hope that had been living deep in Keith's chest, protected and cherished and burning eternally. It flares to life. A wildfire in his veins that burns away the fog. That brings things to a sharp clarity. That ground him firmly in the days. In the hours. In the minutes. In the seconds.

He can feel he's approaching the crossroads he's been longing for. A crossing of paths he's craved.

He sees it in the distance, and he _runs_.

A smile crawling across his lips. An energy buzzing beneath his skin. His heart threatening to burst through his ribs and into the light of day.

For the first time in a long time, in a pattern that feels oddly nostalgic and familiar, Keith begins chasing rumors.

Hunts whispers.

Races after gossip.

He's no stranger to chasing rumors, but he's never done so with such unbridled glee. With his heartbeat quick but not constricting, and his head buzzing and giddy. With a lightness beneath his wing that carries him forward. Carries him _home_.

 

* * *

 

 

✦ ✧ _If our existence is everyone else's chaos, so be it_ ✧ ✦  


* * *

 

 

When he hears the music, he thinks it must be a dream.

He's heard the music so many times before. In the echoing ghosts of his memory. In his imagination, drudging up the echos through the willpower of hope. Hearing it reverberate through the ley lines. He's been searching for it. Feeling more and more desperate as he gets nearer. Each disappointment compounding on the Lance sized ache in his chest.

He's walking through another human town. An old one. Technology simple and buildings of an older time. With chipped stones and worn cobblestone streets. Faded paint on signs and vines crawling up rooftops.

He walks with confidence. Just as he's seen Lance do many times before. Surprised when he feels at peace with that confidence. It feels real. It feels like his own. His hood is up, but his ears poke through. He doesn't bother to hide his face. He walks with his chin up, eyes taking in the town the people around him. HIs wing falls behind him, drifting in the breeze like a cloak.

He walks with purpose in the light, no longer bothering to slink into the shadows.

He nods at those who smile at him. Who wave shyly at him. But he doesn't stop. He walks with purpose. And his purpose is simple: he's chased rumors to this town. The next destination on the blue feathered vastaya's path. He hasn't heard any whispers past this point, but that doesn't mean Lance hasn't already moved on.

He strikes through the town quickly. Toward the center of it. Toward where the central square will be. He knows that's where his mieli likes to perform. He knows that's where he'll find him if he's here at all.

His nerves are strung tight. Anxiousness forming a knot in his stomach. His heart almost fears to beat, feeling like lead in his chest. He's steeled for disappointment, despite how much hope and anticipation burn beneath his skin.

Then he hears the music.

He freezes mid step, body stiff and stunted mid-motion. Eyes widening and ips parting as his jaw falls low.

For a moment, just a moment, he's transported back into the deep wilds of the north eastern isle of Ionia. He's back among the untamed lands, with crawling foliage and dancing spirits. Where magic floods the air and breathes deep into his lungs. He's back in the dark and dusty Hall of Ages. He's staring at ancient tapestries and paintings as notes and melodies are plucked from a time long past.

He closes his eyes, and he can hear the echoes of memories, woven together on the lilting rhythms of music. Traveling across Ionia. Nights spent beneath the stars. Nights spent humming to wellsprings and wrapped beneath feathers.

Nights falling asleep to the salt breeze of the sea and the rock of the waves. Days spent surrounded by the chaos of the ocean, a rampant beauty of its own with a magic too deep to understand, but one he feels reverberate in his bones all the same.

Slices of time sent fighting. Bruises and aches. Blood soaking in the earth. Warm hands on his cheeks, healing his flesh. Chasing the sting away. Flashes of bright blue eyes and a dazzling smile. Of feathers swirling through the battlefield like a tempest, feet dancing to lilting laughter.

He's transported back to a moment of time, stolen away beneath a waterfall deep within the recesses of the Ionian jungle, wrapped so wholly and so completely in each other that their spirits become one.

He can hear the music of home, though it's unlike anything he's heard before. The echoing distant frets of a home he once knew. The sounds he grew up with. Twisted and woven into melodies he's come to know. The patterns that make up Lance. The lilting lifts of sea shanties. The driving rhythm of human music. The strange and magical harmonic progressions of the Alteans.

Woven together into something so new, yet so familiar.

Something he feels deep inside himself. Something that calls out to his soul and tugs it into the light. Shines the parts of him, all the parts of him. A wind that rushes through him. Surges beneath his wing. Lifts him higher than he ever thought he could reach. Falling. Rising. Gliding. Soaring. Flying. Diving.

Calling him home to land.

He opens his eyes, and his feet are already moving. One step, then another. Quicker. Until he's rushing. Until he's running. Body already aware of what his mind is still processing: the music isn't a dream. It isn't an echo through the ley lines. It's _real_ , and he's _here_.

He's tugged forward. An invisible thread that's wrapped and woven so tightly around him. Intertwined so deeply in his soul. It drags him forward without mercy. Urgent and commanding. Making his magic spark and catch. Anticipation fueling the flames. Burning until they consume him. Until his magic reaches out beyond himself in a silent plea.

As he rounds a corner, city streets opening up into a large market square, his first impression is _blue_.

Bright, vibrant, unapologetic _blue_.

Blue of the navy midnight sky giving way to the bright crystalline ice of dawn.

Blue of frozen winter ponds and isolated lagoons, giving way to the deep depths of the ocean.

Lance dances atop the lip of a wide fountain, rising above the surging sea of a crowd below him. Humans who gasp and whisper and smile and sway, enraptured by the vastaya before them.

Keith slows to a halt, just outside the crowd. Just off to the side. Caught and entranced. Heart stuttering in his chest and nerve endings set alight. The knot in his stomach loosens, unravelling and sending a fluttering wave of butterflies to wreck havoc in his chest.

Nostalgia hits him hard, heavy and thick on his tongue as the sight of Lance now is overlaid with the distant and echoing memory of when he first saw him.

Atop a fountain's edge. Lute in his hands. Fingers gracefully and deftly plucking the strings. He sways and dances, feet in time with his own melody. Movements fluid. Wing floating behind him, in his wake, in a beautiful streak of blue. Feathers catching the sun and refracting all the depths of hues he bears. His tail flicks around behind him, bouncing and jovial.

His skin glows in the sunlight. Chestnut hair mused and perfect. Ears tipped with blue. Face lined with familiar markings. Lips spread into an easy, lopsided smile as he sings. Eyes lidded as he loses himself in his song.

He's lines up near perfectly with the ghost of him in Keith's memory, but he's still so different.

His one wing floats behind him like a cloak, rather than two rising behind him. His clothes are different. The skulls bounce at his hip, shining ivory in the light. The one at his shoulder bears Keith's feathers. Magenta and purple with deeper undertones of red. Sleek and sharp compared to the shape of his own. Standing out proudly. Pristine and well kept.

Keith's mark, adorning the beautiful vastaya, proudly on display.

Lance's song, however, is what catches at him. What keeps him rooted in place, transfixed and awed.

The language is ancient. Words he can't understand but _feels_ all the same. The melody, however, is new. Keith prides himself on being familiar with Lance's songs, and this one he's never heard before.

Yet it tugs at something deep within him. Something in his core.

The song Lance sings, he notes he plays, the blend and weave together fractals and slices of things Keith knows. Songs he's heard Lance learn and songs he's heard Lance sing. Split apart and reformed into something new. Something that dredges up memories that Keith holds so dear.

Memories of their travels. Of their adventures. Of _them_.

And while the melody is so lilting, so jovial and light hearted, there's a melancholy in the way Lance sings. Hidden in the recesses of his voice. Words Keith doesn't understand, but an ache he knows well.

It's a siren song for him.

A call for _him_.

The ghost of a silent melody that forms between their magic, between their spirits, taken and plucked from the realm of sensation and hung in the world of sound.

Their song.

The melody of their story.

The notes in their hearts.

The harmony of their souls.

Calling him home.

His heart fills. Grown and heavy. Threatening to burst. His chest is overflowing. Too tight. Threatening to tear him apart at the seams. Warmth surges through his veins and butterflies tear at his ribs.

And then Lance turns, their eyes catch, and the air leaves his lungs in a rush.

All at once, time stills. Slows to a halt. Movement becomes sluggish, suspended in a bubble of time all of their own. His heartbeat stops. Everything stills. Floating. Suspended.

Lance's eyes widen, his wing still moving with his momentum, feathers fluttering in the wind.

And then Lance's smile brightens. Just a fraction. Just a lift of his cheeks to spark a glimmer in his eyes. Lips spreading wider, showing his teeth and catching his fangs.

His spin continues. His dance continues. His song continues. Ever the showman. Ever the performer. But his movements feel lighter. The melancholy dissipates into the afternoon sun.

And Keith watches, feeling lighter. All his buzzing nerves. All the pressure in his chest. It's alleviated. Gone. He feels... calm. Steady.

At peace.

When Lance's performance ends, he lowers into a sweeping bow, soaking in the audience's praise and applause. But his eyes shift to the side. As if tugged by the same unseen force that Keith feels. Drawn to him. Unable to keep away.

Their eyes lock once more.

He winks, and Keith feels far too at ease to stop his smile.

He takes once step back, pulling against the tug in his chest. Resisting the urge to run to him. Instead he holds eyes contact. Another step back. And another. His smile still in place, shifting sly. A challenge burning his his eyes. He sees the responding flame in Lance's before he turns. Breaks eye contact and hurries back the way he came.

Walk quick. Pace brisk.

Then he's running.

Running down the cobblestones and weaving through the people crowding the streets. Heartbeat in his ears, a burn in his lungs, chest fluttering as a laugh bubbles out past his lips. A laugh that's sudden and untempered, giddy and wild. Stolen by the wind as he runs.

He leaves the human village behind and embraces the wilds of Ionia, flooded with chaos and magic. Sinks into the trees and runs until he feels like he's put enough distance from the town. Feels like he's found a place that promises privacy.

Then he climbs a tree, scrambling up and perching on a thick branch over a pathway.

And he waits, heart thundering in his chest and body vibrating, tight with anticipation.

He doesn't have to wait long.

He's waited so long already. They both have. And he can tell from the way Lance comes surging down the path like a hurricane, that he, too, has been feeling the ache of their distance.

He moves quickly. A jog. Just below a sprint. His bags and bow and lute clamor together, but his steps are light. Wing trailing in his wake. His eyes dart around the forest as he moves, sharp and quick. Lips pressed into a small frown in concentration.

He skitters to a stop just below Keith, head tossing back and eyes widening as they find his own. But Keith is already off his perch, leaping down towards him.

Lance is quick. Reactions sharp. He throws his things off his shoulders, off to the side, and opens his arms wide just in time to catch Keith.

They fall to the ground, neither of them bothering to attempt to keep their balance when they feel too light to care. Lance lands with his wing splayed out beneath him, arms wrapped tight around Keith's waist. Keith lands on his chest, arms wrapped like a vice around his neck, face burying into the curve of his shoulder. Breathing in the scent of him. Taking in the warmth of him. His wing fluttering down over top them both.

Lance curls into him. Tail wrapping around his leg. Their legs intertwining. He clumsily pulls Keith's hood down and buries his face in his hair. Nose pressing against his temple. Trailing along the base of his ear. Fingers tangling in the wild strands of his hair.

"I knew you'd find me," He whispers, voice trembling, low as his lips brush against Keith's ear.

He shivers, body curling tighter atop him, trying to meld into him as that familiar voice eases the ache from his chest in shuddering waves. "Did you have to wait long?" He mumbles into the curve of Lance's neck, feeling him shudder against him. That same wave of warmth and recognition after a long, lonely winter.

Lance's hands move along his spine before his fingers rise to his wing, carding through his feathers. "Does it matter?"

"No," He decides. It doesn't. No matter how long they were apart, no matter how long they had to wait, they're together now. They're together again. And that's all that matters.

He feels his magic swirl through him, reaching past him, desperate and seeking. Lance's magic meets his. Soothing and cooling, but just as strong. Just as raging. A powerful flood that surges through him, cooling the burn but not putting out the flames. Instead, building them impossibly higher. Flood waters rising. Drowning. Fire consuming.

The ley lines beneath them ignite with it. Surging out. Wild magic rising to the surface. Seeping from the earth around them like mist. Dissipating into the air in flecks of light. Spark dancing across the grass and crawling over the trees. Flowers grow and bloom, releasing glowing spores to dance into the wind.

A surge of wild magic. A surge of growth. Created by their union. Bringing life around them. Blooming and surging. The landscape crawls with it. The air buzzing with the static of it.

Keith lifts his head. Leans back to gaze down at the man below him. The vastaya who showed him color and light. Who gave him back the music. His mate. His mieli.

And Lance gazes back at him. Eyes lidded. Lips touched with smile. Eyes impossibly gentle. Impossibly fond. Impossibly awed.

Keith can't resist the invisible tug. The winding around his chest that drags him forward. Drags them together. He gives into it with a sigh that feels like relief and tastes like _finally_.

Keith kisses him like a wildfire. Lance kisses him like a storm at sea. They come together in a clash of chaos, driving forces, wild and untamed, that weave together seamlessly to form their own melody. Strong on their own. Harmonious together.

It feels like a promise.

It feels like a beginning.

It feels like a rebirth.

It feels like a prelude. A song that's just begun. Unrefined and wild. A song they get to write together.

He doesn't know where they'll go from here, where their song will take them, but he can't help but feel that, no matter how many centuries he's already seen, his life is just beginning.

 

* * *

 

✦ ✧ _Victors are the sole authors of history. Time to write our chapter_ ✧ ✦

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This fic is very dear to both me and Sora. We had this planned for so long, and the execution from start to finish took a while. But it was worth every moment. My goal for this fic was to explore with painting imagery with words, and Sora wanted to practice digital painting. I'd like to say by the end of it, we both got a lot of good experience. Thank you everyone for coming with us on this journey and your kind words of excitement and support! I love hearing what moments were your favorites. 
> 
> I hope you don't mind that this story doesn't end with them winning the war and freeing Ionia. It was meant as a story about them falling in love, finding purpose together, and uniting the rebellion. While the war was a setting that drove them forward, this story was never meant to be about them finishing it. Doing so just made it feel too long, rushed, or forced. I didn't want to feel obligated to write a whole war when the story was supposed to center around the beauty of magic, life, and the growing relationships.
> 
> Check out our social media to learn more about me, my writing, sora and their art, and our next klance adventures.
> 
> * * *
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THIS FIC ANYWHERE ELSE.** This means you, Wattpad users.
> 
>  **DO NOT REPOST THE ART FROM THIS FIC.** This includes platforms such as instagram and pinterest.  
> Reblog it from the artist: [tumblr](https://wolfpainters.tumblr.com/post/186457985739/wild-magic-final-chapter-wittyy-name-has) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters/status/1153114535471046656?s=20)  
>    
>  **My Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wittyy-name.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/WittyyName), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wittyy_name/)  
>  **Artist's Social Media:** [Tumblr](http://www.wolfpainters.tumblr.com), [Twitter](https://twitter.com/wolfpainters), [Instagram](https://www.instagram.com/wolfpainters/)  
> 


End file.
